But Let It Go, And You Learn
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Forty years behind the Iron Curtain. Forty years that change Elizabeta's life. / RuHun, historically accurate. There's an author's note on the first chapter with more info.
1. 1949

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: I'm a AusHun shipper at heart, but wanted to try something different, and RuHun intrigues me. I felt I had to, as an author, branch out a bit and try something new, so here you go. There's even a PruHun chapter, go figure, but you can tell I see their relationship differently. I also budge some Hetalia rules, but just go with me here.

I've learned so many new things about the Cold War in doing research for this, and hope you all appreciate what I tried to put in and what I'm trying to show here. If anything is incorrect, I apologize in advance; I did the best I could, but I learned all of this from an American point of view, and so there were so many things we were never taught.

I know RuHun is kind of rare, so I tried to contribute the best RuHun fic I could, with events and quotes and the like. So enjoy and review so I know what I got right and what to continue with.

* * *

><p>"The threat of a world war is no more." Mikhail Gorbachev<p>

**1949**

There is a sense of finality as they are led into the room.

Gilbert can hardly stand. He has taken Elizabeta's arm to help him; Ludwig takes her other, to give the impression that they are escorting her as gentleman do ladies, and not that his brother is weak and dying, as they enter the room. Or maybe Ludwig is trying to get in every last moment of contact with her as they come to stand before the Ally countries. She can feel Roderich standing behind her, too close. His body is warm, just as it always was during those cold Austrian nights in a bed they used to share.

They had all been in Berlin: Ludwig, to protect his land; Gilbert, to protect his brother; Roderich, because he didn't know what else to do; and Elizabeta, because her ministers were afraid of what would have happened if she'd stayed in Budapest. She knows they were right and it sickens her.

Yao isn't there, she's noticed. Elizabeta's breathing is starting to quicken. Their clothing is all old, torn, all they had in the bunker. They'd laid in bed, Elizabeta holding Ludwig, Gilbert holding the two of them, Roderich at the end of the bed stroking her calves. They'd heard the bombs going off and the door fly open, an army desperate for victory coming to get them. But Yao isn't there; it's only the three European nations and Alfred. Kiku is probably with Yao now, she'd guess. Feliciano, who knows? But if he's not here that means he must be safe, and as she leans into Ludwig, and Ludwig into her, they both know they're trying to assure the other of it. Gilbert lets go of her arm, standing on his own. Roderich grasps her now-free hand behind her back.

"We've, uh." Alfred gestures to his allies. "We've made our decision. But as this is now a European affair, I will, um, well, excuse myself." Elizabeta has never seen Alfred like this, unsure of words, calm, reserved. He turns to Arthur, and they share a sad look before the younger man leaves. She's noticed something now: that Arthur and Francis, they're standing off to their right. Ivan, alone, is standing off to the left.

Roderich's hold on her hand tightens as Ludwig wraps an arm about her. Gilbert stands up taller. They've all realized it at the same time:

They're being split up.

Arthur gestures for Francis to speak, but as the French nation steps forward he grimaces in pain and shakes his head. Only Ivan looks happy, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He has bags under his eyes and there's blood on his coat, but he seems content with everything.

"Well." Arthur clears his throat. "Let us be on with this then. Belsch-" He begins the word, then stops, looking from Ludwig to Gilbert.

Elizabeta's heart begins to race like never before.

Roderich forgotten, she grabs Gilbert's arm again, the two brothers stepping towards each other, silently trying to say so many things.

"Germany," Arthur clarifies. "If you can come with us." From the shadows of the room, soldiers step forward to ensure Ludwig complies.

He's holding their hands, Gilbert's and Elizabeta's, as they drag him away. It happens as if in slow motion in her mind, another soldier coming to hold back the three remaining nations, though Roderich puts up no fight. Ludwig looks so small in that moment; not in his height, or in his muscles, but in his eyes. That glint of the child that's still there, the innocent hope that we can all get along. Ludwig has always believed there is a better world, and she's encouraged it. It's like seeing a fire Elizabeta spent all night kindling extinguished in a violent downpour. He'll always be the little boy she raised, so many years ago.

She turns to let Gilbert hold her, but Roderich catches her and holds her close. Somewhere far away, she hears Arthur's voice say, "Edelstein, you too please." The soldier returns to pry him from her, but there is no need. He goes willingly, kissing her hands before leaving, watching her with every step backwards. It has been so different, since the divorce. They only had one night to themselves, one night in the bunker where Ludwig and Gilbert sat in the hall, where they made love over and over like they used to. She doesn't know if he still loves her; she doesn't know if she still loves him. But she's so used to him being there, that a world without Roderich is a world Elizabeta cannot imagine.

It hits her, when she sees those two Germans that she's always been able to love so easily, standing between Arthur and Francis. It hits her like a train carrying bricks, that that means Gilbert and her are to go with Ivan. Roderich remains calm, watching her, but panic fills Ludwig, who has never been without both his adoptive mother and brother.

"No!" Ludwig is the one to scream first, trying to run to them; a soldier stops him. Another one stops Elizabeta, who's crying so hard she doesn't know if the no she keeps hearing is in her head or if it's out loud or if she's saying it or simply hearing it. Gilbert is behind her, his body pressed into her back, trying to reach Ludwig, trying to say goodbye.

* * *

><p>They never got a chance to say goodbye.<p>

It's all she can think the whole train ride to Moscow, where they are processed, and then the train out to wherever it is Ivan is taking them. She can still see the tears staining precious Ludwig's face. She can still see Roderich fading into the shadow in that war room. She can still see Gilbert punching the wall after they've left, when it's just her and him and their captor.

She clings to Gilbert, and he clings to Elizabeta. They never leave each other's sight. She's too afraid he'll be gone when she comes back, she whispered one night when Ivan had left to take a piss. He's afraid Ivan will touch her, Gilbert said, the way the Russian soldiers raped her women during the war. The look in Gilbert's eye is one of defeat, of having lost everything. She knows the feeling, knows it well from when she divorced Roderich. They have been reduced to nothing. This was the war to destroy it all.

They share a bed on the way, and it's not the same, but it does the job. Gilbert's chest is too big to be Roderich's and too small to be Ludwig's in her imagination; from the way he shifts, Elizabeta can tell he's never spent a night with a woman in his arms. Yet they've known each other for years, and that gives them a quiet knowledge of the other, a comfort they alone have, that not even Ivan can take from them. The Russian sits in the car with them every day, watches them, tries to make jokes that are never funny in a language they don't know. Elizabeta has spoken nothing but German for so many years, she's afraid of forgetting Hungarian. But she's never learned Russian, and Gilbert's never learned anything he didn't have to.

He's her best friend, Gilbert. She doesn't know when it happened, but there it is. Roderich was always the one to kiss her injuries, Ludwig to go take revenge for hurting someone he loves so much. But Gilbert always broke the fall, catching her, no matter what it did to him. They've become less important, these nations incarnate, to their officials. So much less important than they used to be. Elizabeta hasn't even been contacted about what's going on in Hungary in years, doesn't feel what her people feel inside like she used to. She's so dead on the inside, it doesn't matter; maybe that's why she can't connect to them. Only Gilbert's arms wrapped about her fragile body keep her going. He's the only real thing left in this world.

* * *

><p>The house is far from the town which is days away from anything Elizabeta would call a city. But that's Russia, and she knew it'd be some place like this. Some place where if she ran she wouldn't know which way to go and would freeze in the cold. Or perhaps Ivan would catch her and punish her; she has no delusions of the cruelty he is capable of beneath that childlike exterior. A place from which there is no return, not for people like Elizabeta and Gilbert.<p>

That's what frightens her the most, as he leads them through the house. He shows them rooms proudly: his study, the dining room, an antechamber that leads to a sitting room with a fireplace. The fire is going, but no one sits in the room. The other nations all sit outside it, in the antechamber. They have long faces, and Elizabeta knows as she holds Gilbert's arm closer to her, that they wear the same expressions. She doesn't even know their humans names, Ukraine and Belarus and Lithuania and Estonia and Latvia. Only Feliks is a familiar face, though she abandoned their friendship long ago. All her energy went into her three German men.

What a wasted effort.

Ivan shows Gilbert his room first, which is by the other men down a long hall and around a corner. As Ivan walks away, he gestures for Elizabeta to follow him. Her heart races as Gilbert steps forward to follow.

"No," Ivan says happily. "This is your room. I am taking her to her room."

"I want to know where her room is," Gilbert says defiantly, and Elizabeta knows it takes every ounce of strength he has. She knows him, can see the lines cracking. She hopes Ivan can't.

The Russian simply smiles and shakes his head. "No, you will stay here, or I will end you." He walks down the hall.

Gilbert grabs Elizabeta. "Erzsi," he says quickly, "I will not let anything happen to you, find me and tell me where you are, scream if he tries any-" A hand on her shoulder pulls her away from the once-proud Prussia.

"I said we are going now," Ivan states. Elizabeta chances one last look back at Gilbert. It's like she is all he has left, no more Ludwig to protect or Roderich to tease. No Francis or Antonio to go out with. Only Elizabeta.

As Ivan leads the way down the hall in the other direction, they turn another corner. There are four doors: on the left three of the doors are evenly spaces; on the right the fourth door stands alone.

"That is me!" Ivan states proudly, pointing at the lone door. It must be the biggest room. "And those are my sisters." He points to the two doors closer to them. "And that is you." Ivan walks to the end of the hall and points at the last door, before opening it.

Elizabeta's steps are slow as she takes it all in. The first door says "Ирина", a cup attached to it with some wild flowers. The next door reads "Ната", and Elizabeta thinks it must be Belarus's room; there is something eerie about it. She chances a look across the hall, where Ivan's room bears a sign reading "Ваня". It must be their names in Russian, but she does not understand how to read it. She passes Ivan, who is still smiling at her, and notices her door reads "Елизавета". There is something in it, something disgusting about seeing her name written like this, like she is no longer Hungarian.

The room is lovely. A large four-post bed stands in the middle, matching furniture scattered about. To the left there's a door leading to what must be a bathroom. To the right the room's straight walls change, and a bay window makes room for a small sitting area. But the landscape outside seems barren in the late hour, and part of Elizabeta tells her she has to hate the room. As beautiful as it is, this is her prison cell. At least in the last jail, she could hear the others, could see their hands sticking out through the bars. They were together.

Ivan follows her in as she steps into the open area between the bed and sitting area. Turning to face him, she sees a half-empty bookcase, the writing the same as the signs on the doors.

So many languages she speaks, and yet she does not know Russian.

Ivan says something with great affection, but Elizabeta doesn't understand any of it. She stares at him while he looks back, before he sighs and repeats in French, "My sister will get you in the morning for breakfast. I will lock the door when I leave." Because she still knows where Gilbert's room is. He may as well say it. "Do you like your room?"

There's something in his voice, an edge of hope that maybe she'll say yes. She knows he wants her to.

"Nein."

It only serves to make him smirk.

"Too bad."

He leaves, and the lock clicks behind him.

* * *

><p>From her bra she removes three old photographs. They've been with her for years now, the only personal affects she could bring with her from place to place.<p>

The first is an old black and white photograph that someone colored in years ago. It's from her wedding to Roderich, her dress large, his suit fashionable for the time. Their smiles are stiff but it reminds her of happier days.

The second is another black and white photograph, but she loves it the way it is. The edges curl but you can still see a little Ludwig smiling between Elizabeta and Gilbert. She can see the blue in those wide eyes; he must have been only nine or ten.

The last is a color photograph. She's standing between Roderich and Ludwig, Gilbert having thrown his arm around his brother. They're all in their uniforms, which are still nice and fresh and decorated with medals. Their smiles are small but genuine. It had been so long since they could be together like that.

Elizabeta holds them to her heart and cries. She's so afraid they'll never have another day like that again, a day to just be.

Together.


	2. 1951

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: Penis.

On a more serious note, since Ukraine has no official name I went with what seems to be the most common name for her being considered for canonization. But the Russian version. Russia's house, Russia's version of names.

(In response to a statement in the reviews.) This chapter is a transition between last chapter and the rest of the story, so any future reference to the way things go down in Soviet Russia, they're right here. So we're laying the groundwork here people, brick by brick.

* * *

><p>"The purpose of morality is to teach you, not to suffer and die, but to enjoy yourself and live." Ayn Rand<p>

**1951**

The sitting room is only for Ivan. Often times Nataliya follows him in, sits at his feet, holds his hand. She's the one next to Elizabeta's room, and she hates it. Hates listening to Nataliya crying at Ivan's door to let her in, crying that she wants to get married and be with him. But she hates it even more when he comes to her, when he takes her in the room next over. Nataliya is a screamer, and it's so fucking irritating. It's like she's making noise to make noise, Elizabeta doesn't understand how any man could want to fuck that.

By now Elizabeta recognizes a few words here and there that Nataliya shouts, recognizes the commands Ivan gives her, "take it off," "get on your knees," "don't stop bitch." There's something ridiculous about those two in that room. Nataliya barely talks most days, yet won't shut up in bed. Ivan is always polite with a false sweetness, a childlike demeanor. But he's the dirtiest bedroom talker Elizabeta has ever heard, and it takes every ounce of her to not be ill every time they do it, fucking for hours on end.

Ivan's other sister is Irina; she's the one that takes Elizabeta places. She likes Irina, who's sweet like Ivan but in a genuine way; it makes Elizabeta question what happened with Nataliya. Sometimes Irina gets to go into the sitting room, to sit by the fire. But most nights Nataliya complains for Irina to leave, and so she does as she is told.

The antechamber is cold in the winter, which seems to drag on for years before a brief summer. The other countries lay about in the room, mostly on the floor. The first day Elizabeta mistakenly sat on the window seat, and despite Nataliya's shrieks, Ivan laughed and told her to stay. So Elizabeta shares the window seat with Gilbert, as they speak in hushed German.

He's found her room by now, sneaks in most nights. The week earlier he started moving his things into her room when Ivan was outside being chased by Nataliya. There's nothing sexual to him sharing her bed; it's like sleeping with a brother. Elizabeta is grateful for the company, for the warmth and the knowledge that she's not alone in still crying herself to sleep.

She cannot move past her hand in life, cannot accept that this is what she's come to, after all these years. Gilbert whispered one night, "A kocka el van vetve." It made her laugh, to hear him trying to speak Hungarian. "The die have been cast," it's an old Hungarian proverb. It makes her feel a little better, to hear that old language, to know Gilbert understands, but it doesn't make the load easier to bear. They have no control of their lives. They could wake up one morning and be dead by lunch, because Ivan was bored. Dead, just because.

Elizabeta rarely sees him, Ivan, except at meals and in the evening when he sits by the fire, a glass of vodka in his hand. She's become fascinated with trying to figure him out, and she hates herself for not being able to look away when he's there. Her eyes always follow him, snap to him, in pictures and paintings and his written name on paper. She's learned his door reads "Vanya," that it's a pet name for him. Elizabeta questions how many people get to call him "Vanya" and live to tell the tale.

There are few reports from her country, all letters going through some office that somehow never lets Elizabeta see anything but the worst news. She's realized the Soviets are treating her country the worst, but takes satisfaction in knowing it's because they're the most rebellious, that her people won't sit and submit to another's rule. Ivan always watches her get the news, his face never changing, but she always smiles at him, just to irritate him further. Now she has no contact outside this house save those Ivan lets her have. Gilbert whispers what he knows, but the Soviets never let any news of Ludwig or Roderich through. They could be dead, and neither the Hungarian or Prussian would know it.

* * *

><p>At night she can hear him walk by her door, can hear him stand outside and listen. Gilbert normally holds her close as they hold their breath. She doesn't know why Ivan does it; she doesn't want to know why.<p>

* * *

><p>Elizabeta doesn't even know what day it is when she realizes she knows all the letters, understands enough to read the books on her bookshelf, to listen to the others conversing in Russian. Gilbert struggles and she helps him until he too knows enough. Slowly they're losing themselves; slowly they're becoming Russian too.<p>

* * *

><p>One night Gilbert retires before her, and walking in she finds him masturbating. She doesn't even react to the sight, to him moaning stupid things in German. Gilbert isn't much for romance and women, but he's still a man. So Elizabeta climbs up behind him and helps him finish, her fingers lacing in with his, her words soft. He doesn't apologize, doesn't say anything to cover up what he's done in her bed. But he does thank her, kissing her forehead when she wishes him goodnight.<p>

The next afternoon Nataliya throws a fit, and so Elizabeta and Gilbert retire to their shared bedroom to avoid flying shrapnel. Elizabeta's flipping through a Russian novel Irina gave her when Gilbert lays on top of her, rolling her to her side.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

He kisses her neck in a way that would have been affectionate if it wasn't Gilbert behind her. "I want to repay the favor."

"What favor?"

"From yesterday. I know you try when I'm not here; let me help you."

Once upon a time, Elizabeta blushed at holding hands with Roderich. He wasn't the first man she kissed (Gilbert was, after a night of too much alcohol that they both barely remember), but he was the first man she was ever with. He knew so much more than her, Roderich, taught her, and she loved it all, but she was still so modest. It wasn't until after the divorce that she tried to touch herself for the first time, tried to reach what she had only ever achieved with her husband. But somehow it was never enough, and she never found that satisfaction.

And the truth is, when Gilbert isn't there she does try to get what she can never have. Part of her is ashamed of that, she used to be married with a husband who always filled her; even the word "masturbation" makes her shutter. But after yesterday she's realized she doesn't care anymore. She may never leave this place, never be with another man again. If Gilbert can have his happy ending, why can't she?

Gilbert's hands are calloused and cold, as one of them undoes her pants and slips beneath her panties. The other arm pulls her to him, his back pressed into her. She can feel him grow hard against her ass.

"Your hand is cold," she mutters, and he removes the hand from her, rubbing it until he's satisfied. "I'm not going to have sex with you." It slips back to her center, and this time she moans at the touch.

"That'd be gross if we had sex," Gilbert whispers into her ear, and she almost laughs at how unromantic he can be while he rubs her clit.

He's slower than she'd expect, but she can tell he doesn't have any real clue what he's doing. Her hands alternate between helping him unbutton her shirt and guiding him, until he slips one finger into her, curling it, making her press into him, moaning something in Hungarian. Encouraged, he repeats the action.

For all his flaws, Gilbert learns quickly. He pauses, removing his hand from her mound, to discard her shirt and bra, pulling her pants and panties off the rest of the way. Elizabeta watches him remove his own shoes and shirt, laying on her back until he returns to her.

Gilbert kisses her for the second time in their life, and it's not romantic, but Elizabeta is hungry for a man and he is willing. His hands roam over her while she silently guides him. Too soon she's coming as he licks her up, her legs over his shoulders. It's the only time she screams, a "yes!" in Hungarian, her hands pulling at his hair. While she comes back to earth he kisses her navel, his hands still on his hips. He's watching her, those red eyes looking into her deeply. "The eyes are the mirror of one's soul," it's an old Hungarian proverb she remembers suddenly and in that moment, she understands it completely.

She hopes there's still something beautiful in her for him to see, something appealing and soft that reminds him of how she used to be. He lays beside her and though she goes to unzip his pants, he stops her.

"Gil, you're-"

"It's ok Erzsi."

He's gathered her up in his arms, and holds her close. For hours they lay like that until the bell for dinner rings. As they get dressed he asks,

"Feel better?"

She sits beside him while he pulls his shirt back over his head. "Yeah, I do. Thanks." He hands her her shirt.

"No problem Erzsi." He grabs the back of her head and kisses her.

* * *

><p>Nothing changes. Nothing ever does here. Sometimes it's cold, sometimes it's colder. But nothing changes.<p>

They lay in bed shivering, never enough blankets to keep them warm. They don't cry themselves to sleep anymore, and Erzsi is glad for that. Normality has returned, a sense of camaraderie with some of the other nations. She knows their names now, even some of their nicknames. They've started to call her Erzsi, to talk to her and Gil. It could almost be nice. But they still sit in the antechamber, while Ivan lounges on the couch before the fire, vodka in one hand, a too-close Nataliya on his other side. In the winter they're covered with a blanket, and no one has any delusions on what that girl's hands are doing.

Gil shifts; she thought he was asleep. As if reading her mind he murmurs, "Too cold to sleep."

"Too cold for anything."

"Um."

They lay like that until Gil moves farther under the covers, looking in her in the eye.

"Erzsi?"

"Ja?"

In the dark his eyes shine like a purple she used to know, but she fights to suppress the thought. He's not Roderich, he never will be.

"Erzsi," Gil starts unsure, "I could love you Erzsi."

His words hang in the air, and she understand what he's saying. They only have each other, and they already share a room and bathroom and bed, already touch each other in the most intimate of ways. They're always together, always happiest when they are.

But that does not make them lovers.

"No you couldn't Gil."

He pulls her close. "Why not?" There's something desperate in the words, in that voice.

"Do you really think you could ever be happy with me? After all we've been through, after all we've done to each other, could you be happy with me? I raised your brother, I married your cousin, I defeated you. I couldn't make you happy Gil."

His grip on her loosens a little as he buries his head in the crook of her neck.

"I could try to make you happy," he mutters.

She strokes his hair. "You could try, but you never would. Face it Gil, we weren't meant to be together. You're my best friend, but we are not in love."

Silence fills the room, pressing in on them, until Gil rolls off of her, pulling Erzsi back to where they had been before, the mattress warm from their bodies. "You're right," he whispers. "I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy. With you, like this."

"Is it enough?"

So many wars, fought to gain, ending in loss. So many wars to finally have their fill as a country, only to lose everything they ever loved.

"Yeah Gil. It is."

* * *

><p>In the morning there's a note under the door: "Беда́ никогда́ не прихо́дит одна́."<p>

Trouble never comes alone.


	3. 1954

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: I like proverbs and writing Ivan, the one because they're deep, the other because he's crazy yet endearing.

Special early posting of this for « Disturbed Nord » (hello!) to make you feel better. :) We're still in the beginning parts of this roller coaster, but now you can begin to see how much last chapter weaves in. I hope. Give it ten more years story-wise and it will at least.

* * *

><p>"To say 'I love you' one must first be able to say the 'I.'" Ayn Rand<p>

**1954**

Eduard is passing her a dish while Erzsi looks at what Ravins is reading, when Ivan walks into the dining room. Everything stops in an instant, everyone freezing where they are, forks midway to mouths, knives paused in spreading butter. It's been building for weeks now, as he walks closer to the edge of something, and they're all afraid of what. Ivan is unpredictable; any day he could jump. And they all know they'd die with him.

When he sits Nataliya goes to sit on his lap. He slaps her, hard, in a way he never has, and she falls to the ground where she stays, sobbing. After a moment he starts to eat, and they all continue as if nothing has happened, avoiding looking in his direction. There is no reasoning with the Russian nation.

Across the table Gil watches Erzsi move. When she catches his eye he looks down, but she can feel someone else's eyes.

Ivan is watching her move too.

* * *

><p>Later they're walking from her room, arm in arm, to sit with the other nations.<p>

"He's been watching you for days now," Gil whispers in German.

"Well what am I suppose to do?" His words are frightening her, but it's not like she can tell Ivan to stop. He's Ivan Fucking Braginski; he says jump, she has to ask how high.

Before they've taken two steps into the room everyone's head snaps to them, a hush falling over the other countries. In a moment she's back on the battlefield in the first world war, watching bombs fall as Roderich lies unconscious in her arms: all that fear, all that uncertainty, hits her, the knowledge that has no control of what happens. All eyes rest on her and Gil; from the other room Ivan sits on the couch, staring at her with a glint in his eyes she's never seen but heard stories of.

In seconds he's got a hold of her, dragging her backwards. Gil makes to stop Ivan but a heavy hand knocks him to the ground. He yanks her up the stairs, shoving her up before him. Tears are rolling down Erzsi's face as he slaps her ass to move faster. On the top landing she collapse, only to have Ivan grab her, dragging her further down the hall. Somewhere someone is screaming, and it hurts her ears before she realizes that it's her scream. She's clawing at the carpet, trying to slow this unstoppable force; she can hear Gil trying to come up the stairs, hears the other nations telling him it wasn't worth it, he couldn't help her now. Gil runs around the corner as Ivan throws open the door to her room, shoving her in.

Erzsi hits the ground so hard it knocks the wind out of her, one leg falling uncomfortable under her. She gasps in pain, pulling the leg to her chest. Above her Ivan watches, that mad look in his eye. He's gone crazy, finally jumped, and she doesn't even know why. What had she done?

Gil yells for Ivan to stop and suddenly Ivan has a gun and it's pointing right at Gil's head. The Prussian freezes; Erzsi wills this to all be a nightmare.

Ivan's eyes are wild as he takes in Gil. "Do you love him?" he whispers, and she doesn't even catch what he's getting at. His head whips to her on the ground, shouting, "Do you love him? Do you let him touch you? Do you let him dirty you, you filthy whore? You never look at me!"

She doesn't even notice the pain in her body as she takes in the Russian. He's gone insane, spitting at the end of each exclaimed question. She doesn't know what to do, beyond to shake her head and whisper, "Ivan…."

It's the first time she's said his name, and for a moment he calms, the rage in his eyes dying down. But as quick as it left it returns. The gun is still pointing at Gil as he says, "Бог дал, Бог и взял." He repeats himself in German, just to make sure she understand him:

"What the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh."

He slams the door closed, locking it, shouting, "If I cannot have you, no one can!" She can hear Gil clawing at the door, knows Ivan must be watching. Too soon the sound of her last friend stops, and she knows he must have been marched away, though she isn't sure if Ivan is still there.

* * *

><p>For nearly an hour she lays on the floor, but it's no use. Erzsi drags herself to the bathroom where she attempts to treat her wounds, before hobbling to the sitting area. She collapses on the couch and must have fallen asleep, because when she awakens Ivan is sitting in the chair beside her. Her body tenses, both at his presences and at the demure demeanor about him. He's wringing his hands as she sits slowly, he's watching his feet. Erzsi moves down the couch to be as far away from him as possible. Without looking up, he laughs. It's frightening.<p>

"I do not blame you," he states. She's noticed most of his sentences are short and to the point. When he's alone with Nataliya or even Irina, he seems to carry on longer. But to her, it's only been terse statements, as if every word pains him. "I know it means little, but I am sorry for my outburst. I lost control."

Perhaps what scares Erzsi the most is trying to put together this Ivan with the one who threw her to the floor so easily, who threatened Gil as if it was nothing, who can both fuck his own sister and hit her like some unwanted dog.

"I understand, in Hungarian," he continues softly, and there's almost a richness to his voice that Erzsi could like, "there is a saying. That you can tell a man by his friends. How do you say that in Hungarian?"

Her mind casts about for the forgotten words. "Egy... Egy ember barátjairól ismerszik meg."

"Is there a saying for a man who has no friends?" he whispers.

She chances to look at him, finding tender eyes taking her in. His eyes are on her wrist, where she wrapped a towel.

"You are hurt."

"Well, you did rough me up."

Ivan blinks, all the while staring at the towel, before his eyes come up to meet her gaze. His eyes are purple, but not like Roderich: her Austrian has dark eyes, that hide from the world the real aristocrat beneath them, eyes that shone only when the sun set, the piano close. Ivan's eyes are light, childlike; there's an innocence in them that's wrong. It reminds her of a young Ludwig, the look in his eyes when he'd come to apologize for some wrong he'd done.

A hand reaches out for her wrist; she flinches in response. Ivan stills before standing, sitting on the edge of the couch beside her. He reaches out again and this time Erzsi tries to stay still as he takes in the damage, removing the towel. The bleeding has stopped; it was only a small cut she hadn't realized she had until she noticed the blood. Fingers so much bigger than she's used to gently trace their way across the cut before his hands take hold of her forearm, leaning down to kiss the wound.

There's something breathtaking to the way he moves. Erzsi knows she should be lashing out, should be fighting to get away from him. But his lips are loving against her wrist, his gaze caring as he sits up, looking at her.

"Do you like Russia?" His questions comes out of the blue, his hands now holding hers in his lap. It's almost romantic the gesture, a bay window before them looking out over a vast landscape, his body close to hers.

But her eyes drift down and they both know the answer before she speaks. "No."

"Why do you not like Russia?" There's a pinch of hurt to his words.

Somewhere there's a lake she used to swim in, a capital she knows every road of, a house she used to call her own. A large thumb wipes away tears she doesn't even know she's shed. "I miss home," Erzsi gasps.

* * *

><p>Days later she ventures downstairs, for the first time in a week. She wants to sit with Gil, to feel his body next to hers on that window seat. When she enters the room the other nations stop talking, taking her in. She makes to sit beside Gil, her eyes cast down, but there's a tut that makes her look up. Ivan is sitting in the other room, watching her, one arm thrown over the back of the couch.<p>

Each step is carefully placed as Erzsi makes her way to him. Nataliya is watching her with devil eyes; Gil has a longing to his look. But she enters, for the first time, Ivan's sitting room, coming to stand before him. He smiles up at her, the arm over the couch coming down to pat the spot beside him. Obediently she sits, being rewarded with a too strong arm wrapping about her, pulling her close to him. In the night her pants disappeared; she's wearing some dress with a hideous floral pattern. She pulls her legs up beneath her, spreading the skirt to cover the skin. The fabric is thinner then she's used to, making Erzsi shudder at the sudden warmth in the room, from the body beside her and the fire crackling.

After several moments the other countries go back to what they were doing. If she was braver perhaps Erzsi would have chanced a look back, to see what Gil thought of all this. But she knew he was there, watching her. Knew he'd do something stupid if Ivan tried anything; it's comforting, in a way, knowing that.

Ivan sips at his vodka, offering her the glass. She shakes her head; vodka was never for her. "It burns," she whispers, trying not to offend him.

His body vibrates from his laugh. "Da, it does."

It's his eyes she watches, those eyes taking in the fire. She can see the flames climbing in his eyes, the orange and red and yellow reflecting in that violet. She can see each flame lick up a new log, snapping it. It's like the way he can treat them, treat her, kissing her wounds he made. But there's something else, something she's afraid of discovering.

When he looks at her her breathing hitches. The arm around her strokes her side; he puts down the glass to stroke the side of her face. She leans in, hating herself for that. Her eyes close, his breath close, as he whispers, "You look very pretty, Elizabeta." His nose bumps her, and she doesn't want to kiss him. He pulls back suddenly, and her eyes fly open. She hadn't wanted to, but she wasn't going to stop him.

But he's not looking at her. Irina comes closer, holding something to her large chest.

"What is it?" He's confused, and it worries Erzsi. Ivan is never confused, always in control.

"Vanya," his sister whispers, stepping forward and handing him the envelope, before stepping back. "They just delivered this, told me what's in it, I… I'm sorry Vanya." Erzsi watches Irina as Ivan takes his arm from around her. Irina won't look up; she'd hate to be the messenger for whatever this news was.

His body sags before grabbing the glass and downing the rest of the vodka. "Leave," he grunts, and Irina goes. Erzsi isn't sure if she's supposed to follow, finally chancing a look back into the other room. Everyone has their eyes down, no one daring to watch. Erzsi turns back, and Ivan is watching her, his arm on the armrest, holding up his head.

Maybe she was included in his last order? He sighs, dropping the papers to the ground, before suddenly throwing the glass hard against the fireplace. It shatters, splaying everywhere. There's a scurrying sound from the other room while the other nations leave. Only Nataliya and Gil are left, but Erzsi is set on staying. Something keeps her rooted to the spot.

Ivan's face is obscured by his large hand, leaning against the arm rest again. His other hand grips the couch until she feels she has to make a move, and takes his large hand in both of her smaller ones. "I had to do something," he murmurs.

"Better the glass than your sister," Erzsi agrees, and she knows he's trying. His eyes are closed and he's breathing deeply, trying to regain composure. Her fingers stroke his palm, her thumbs massaging the back of his hand.

Finally he relents, sending the two watching nations away. Nataliya stomps her foot, and Ivan calls her something nasty. Gil looks at Erzsi, who smiles weakly. Satisfied, he heads upstairs, and from the sound of the creaking, he's returned to her room. Nataliya finally leaves as well.

"You are beautiful," Ivan announces, but she wants to know the truth.

"What happened?"

Ivan's fingers pull at his lips before he sits up. "Stalin died."

She gasps. "When?"

"Last year."

Her eyes narrow. "And this is news?"

"No." Ivan kicks at the carpet a bit. "No, but they are trying to denounce him. They think I was too close to him. They are taking away many of my privileges until they decide otherwise." There's a silence before he asks lightly, watching her, "Why are your people so rebellious?"

The fire has begun to die down, the room getting dark. His arms come to encircle her, one hand holding her face to his. But when Ivan goes to kiss her, Erzsi turns her face, her fingers pressing into his lips.

"No, Ivan," she whispers. Not like this. Perhaps if things were different, then she could care for him. But not like this.

His lips kiss her fingers, his eyes trained on her even now. Somewhere there's an Austrian who used to love her like no one else, a German who could always make her laugh, a Frenchman who held her when she cried. There's an American who always picks fights with an Englishman, a Canadian cringing at the sight. People are speaking in strange languages, parents tucking children into bed, couples falling in love.

"Freedom," she whispers, and he's confused for a moment before remembering his question. "All we want is our freedom."

"If it were mine to give," he starts before his voice trails off.


	4. 1956

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: Genuinely don't think I ever learned about Hungary, 1956, before writing this. I won't write anything here for those who don't know what happened, but after this I suggest looking it up. For the purpose of the story I didn't include a lot of what happened, but it is worth looking into more.

On a lighter note, the coat mystery deepens.

* * *

><p>"The stupid neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive but do not forget." Thomas S. Szasz<p>

**1956**

For weeks strange men have been pouring in and out of the house, out of Ivan's study. Erzsi never tries to remember the faces, too many to keep track of, as they scurry past her, afraid that her Hungarian might be contagious. She brings his meals into the study, the only one brave enough to do so. He doesn't eat with them anymore, in the dining room. Which means that Erzsi can return to her seat across from Gil, instead of the chair beside Ivan. Which means that Nataliya races to fill that chair, staring at Erzsi for daring to get between her and her brother.

Those two haven't had sex in ages. One day Ivan had come to sit with Erzsi in her room, and this time she was truthful about letting Gil touch her, about how it means nothing. How she trusts him and that's why it's ok, and though it took all his patience, Ivan remained calm. He'd asked why he cannot hear them when they do such things and she told him she doesn't like to be loud, that she doesn't like to hear other people. She didn't mean to say it but he sat up straighter at it, and since then Ivan hasn't visited Nataliya. It's for the better, really.

She still doesn't know where they are, in Russia, and he won't tell her, but Ivan did let Erzsi come with him into town one day. She'd never been in a kremlin before, and this one was old. She'd wandered about, looking at everything, until Ivan came, walking with her till they had to leave. He tried to hold her hand, but that was too much, and so he simply hovered behind her. Erzsi allowed him that much.

When she brings him his meals he lets her sit, lets her close the door behind him. He eats quickly, so that she always leaves with the tray. Erzsi asks him silly questions, like why he always wears a coat or jacket, who gave him the scarf, where was he born, what's his favorite color. He answers some between bites, Irina gave it to him, he doesn't remember, he likes yellow. But some he ignores, like the question about his coat. That's fine; at least they are talking.

She has no idea what's happening in Hungary. No one will tell her, and Ivan doesn't let her bring him food some days. Those are the days he's dealing with her people, she knows it. Erzsi hasn't been allowed to do work for her country since her marriage to Roderich; she has no idea what Ivan could be doing. At first he didn't go out as much, after he got the letter saying he was being monitored. But slowly they gave him back everything, and now he comes and goes in the middle of the night, taking the train and returning days later, covered in what must be someone else's blood. Erzsi doesn't know how many people's blood it is, and she hates herself for always praying that none of it is Ivan's. She doesn't even like him, but she patiently washes it off his hands anyway.

* * *

><p>It's the beginning of November, when she's called into Ivan's study. But as she enters she notices that Ivan isn't there. There are officials, two of them, but that's it: her and the officials.<p>

The door has barely closed behind her when the man behind Ivan's desk throws papers down. "Lies," he spits. "The lies they try to send you."

"I don't-" she starts in the best Russian she can muster. She's never seen those papers before, but she recognizes the writing: it's Hungarian, it has to be from Budapest. She recognizes the stationary, it's from her desk at home. They used to send her things on that stationary when it was secret, her ministers, when it was meant for her eyes only. Why would they try to send her something? How important could it be? They had to know she would never receive the letters, that the Soviets would see it first and read everything. They weren't stupid, they could find someone to translate it for them.

"Lies," he repeats, and the standing man steps towards her. "We try and help your people, and this is the thanks we get. A revolt. You people disgust me."

It's then that the second man lashes out, striking Erzsi hard across the face. Her vision goes black and she stumbles, falling to the ground. He grabs her arm, pulls her up, only to hit her again, her body once more tumbling down. She can start to taste blood coming from her nose as he beats her, over and over, and she prays that he'll hit her hard enough that it all stops.

There's a sudden bang from somewhere when she hits the ground; she's lost count of how many times she's fallen. She doesn't look up until she hears the man behind the desk say something in Russian, too quick for her to catch. The only words she recognize are "Hungary" and "Braginski".

Ivan looks so much taller from where she is on the ground. He's put himself between her and the officials, and so she stays still. There's that feeling in the air, the one of unpredictability he can get about himself, and it both scares and comforts Erzsi. This time, he's doing this for her.

"Tsk tsk," the one behind the desk says slowly, then says something Erzsi does recognize, something Toris said days ago. "Ба́ре деру́тся - у холо́пов чубы́ треща́т." It's something like, when masters fight the commoner suffers; she can't remember exactly how it goes. But if his words were meant to make Ivan back down, to remember that she meant nothing to him, then they were very ill placed.

She's not sure why Ivan pulling a gun from somewhere on his body still surprises her. For all she knows, the man has twenty guns strapped to him at all time; maybe that's why he wears a coat. But the officials back off at that, and they scream in Russian at each other. Erzsi stops listening, puts her face back in her hands and lays there on the ground, Ivan's feet on either side of hers. The skirt of the dress exposes her thighs but she doesn't bother to cover them. What does it matter?

The door slams again, and a moment passes before Ivan bends down, straightening out her dress so that her legs are covered. "Such pretty legs," he murmurs, "on such a pretty lady." Erzsi can barely make him out, her vision blurry, her breathing labored. He sits beside her, wipes away the blood, pinching her nose until the bleeding has ceased. She stays still until her vision comes back, to find Ivan laying on the floor beside her. It's hard, the ground, no carpet in this room. He smiles weakly at her.

"You are better now?"

"No." Now the guilt is starting, now the fear of what has happened. What was so important that they'd write her? Was it Roderich? Was it Lutz? What?

"You think too much."

"What- what was…." He knows what she's trying to say, takes her hands in his and holds them out between them.

"There was a protest, in Budapest. Many Hungarians died. Many left Hungary. Hungary tried to leave the Warsaw Pact. Hungary cannot leave, and so soldiers shot them and crushed them.

"It was a nice try," he offers brightly. "But now many more people will be punished. Hungary is under Soviet control, and cannot forget."

A thick thumb finds her face, where tears are streaming silently from her eyes.

"It is ok Elizabeta," Ivan whispers. "I did not let them hurt you, once they told me, I came and stopped them. I protected you. Why are you crying?"

"I just want to be free," she moans.

* * *

><p>She smells perpetually of vodka, Gil remarks while she's taking a bath. The warm water feels good on her body, relaxing her tense muscles. She only knows what Ivan told her, doesn't know anything else about what happened. Erzsi tries to imagine how many "many" is to Ivan, someone who has seen millions die in such short spans of time.<p>

"You don't even drink the stuff," Gil murmurs. He moves from the edge of the bath to the floor, holding her hand, sitting facing her.

"He likes it," is all she has to offer.

"Do you like him?" Each word is slow to be said, as he holds her hand.

Does she like him? Ivan protected her, carried her up the stairs to put her on her bed. He sent up food for her, sent Nataliya away, since his sister had been cursing in her bedroom all day. But did she like him?

Despite all his kind words and gestures, Ivan still owned her, controlled her. Erzsi could not leave this place, and from what he said, any chance of freedom coming was long gone. She could never forget that.

"No," she whispers, finding that she's crying. "No, Gil, I don't like him. And that makes it worst. I feel torn, like I'm being dragged in two directions. He does things, kind things, and I think maybe I could like him, if things were different. But they're not, and I know they never will be. I want to go home, I want things to go back to how they were. But they can't either, and so I don't know what to do."

Gil kisses her hand and holds it tight. When she's done with the bath he helps to dry her body, hiding with her under the covers. They sing German songs and she laughs through the tears that he kisses away. He asks her if she wants him to touch her and it's nice but she doesn't really want to. So they sleep huddled together, praying that life goes back to the dull way it was before the officials visited, to when they were ignored. To when they were invisible.

* * *

><p>The fire crackles as she leans into Ivan's shoulders, closing her eyes. Erzsi has been so confused for days as to what she feels, but in the evenings it doesn't matter. She just stops her thinking, and is.<p>

The other day she had been in Irina's room, talking about the new dresses that the Ukrainian would be buying, and would Erzsi like to come too? But the Hungarian had admitted to missing fashion, to missing looking pretty and dressing up. All fashion was state-controlled here, and women who looked too attractive often found themselves being looked down upon.

But Erzsi didn't care. If she was a bad Soviet for dressing up nice, as Gil pointed out, then she should just dress up every day. They had spent a rare sunny day going through her closet, trying on different outfits for his amusement while he directed her spins and twirls, pinning her hair up in amusing ways.

Irina had looked worried when she said she missed fashion; Erzsi realized Ivan had entered the room and heard her. Not that she cared what he thought, but it was a dangerous thing to have said so flippantly. He ignored the conversation they had been having, and so Erzsi thought nothing of it. Maybe he hadn't understood what she had been talking about with his sister. She doubted if he was one for fashion.

That was, until a few days later when she came to sit with Ivan before the fireplace and was handed a fashion magazine, in French and seemingly from Paris. Erzsi knew immediately that meant it had been smuggled into the country, which only served to confuse her more. She had devoured the pages like a man who hadn't eaten in days; it had made the Russian smile. Ivan's random acts of kindness were really beginning to mess with her head, making it hard for her to hate him. So she snuggled up closer, trying to fight away the bitter cold in late December. Ivan's arm pulled her to him as he read some thick tome.

She has realized he liked reading; somehow, it surprises her. Not because she thought he was illiterate, but rather that he had always seemed so childlike. Now that she was here, getting to know some part of him, Erzsi realizes how wrong she had been. He hums long songs that Irina gives the names of, classic pieces composed by Russian musicians before the revolution; they were complicated and intricate, yet Ivan handles each note with ease. He makes constant references to Russian operas and ballets, which she supposes explains some of his trips with bags packed full of smart clothing, and why Ivan always goes with Nataliya to his sister's ballet lessons. On nights he sits watching the fire roar, she can almost here him thinking, mulling over ideas and philosophies she could never hope to comprehend, while he slowly sips at his vodka.

For the last few nights he has been nearing the end of _War and Peace_, but Erzsi notices he seems to have started a new book. "What are you reading?" she asks against his coat, not wanting to lose the warmth of his shoulder against her cheek.

He shuffles a bit, seemingly surprised by her question. "_Anna Karenina_." The name is familiar.

"What's it about?"

Beneath her Erzsi feels him take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. "I suppose," he starts, "that perhaps this is too simple a summation, but for me it is about people trying to come to terms with what one wants, and with what one must do; the characters do not know to whom to give their trust, to give their love." His face takes on a look of longing as fingers play with the edge of a page. The fire cackles dangerously.

"Ivan," Erzsi whispers, breathless, and he looks at her with sad eyes full of that same longing.

"I know," he says, "that I am cruel. That I have done many things to you. I do not want you to forget the monster I am. I want only your forgiveness."

Blinking, she nods. Erzsi would always know what had been done to her people by Russian men, could never forget those things, but Ivan….

She is afraid of what is happening. Of where to place her own love.


	5. 1958

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: Ballet aficionado, who knew? I think I love Ivan more with each chapter. Also I've been listening to « Fix You » by Coldplay on repeat. Not necessarily related to this chapter, but I kind of think of these two when I hear it and thought I'd mention it.

* * *

><p>"For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it. For every truth there is an ear somewhere to hear it. For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it." Ivan Panin<p>

**1958**

One morning there's a ticket under her door. Well, two tickets. One is a train to Leningrad; the other is for a performance. When she opens the door, Erzsi finds a dress. It's beautiful, a rich green, and she's beginning to suspect what's going on.

At breakfast she's the last one to sit, having sent Gil ahead so she could inspect the dress. The cut is basically the same as all the other dresses, approved by the government. But there's an air about it that says expensive, the fabric soft, the color deep. She didn't know you could buy dresses like this in Soviet Russia.

Ivan doesn't recognize her presence when she sits beside him; that's normal. She's pretty sure being ignored in some way keeps them all in line, as if to say, "Even this one isn't worthy of my notice." When Ivan finishes reading the papers in his hand, he finally looks at her with a smile, talk at the table giving them some privacy.

"How long will we be gone?" Erzsi asks. She knows now not to ask what his plans are, that Ivan likes to "surprise" her. She doesn't acknowledge those things, but he seems to have decided that that means she accepts his gifts.

"Irunya will pack with you," is his simple response, and Irina, at the sound of her pet name, looks up, smiling as well.

"You will like Leningrad," she says.

* * *

><p>The platform is windy as it whips at her hair. It's just Erzsi and Ivan, no one else from home, no one else standing near them on the platform. The other passengers stand off to the other side, casting glances at them. Maybe they recognize Ivan, know he's no good. This is probably the station he normally takes the train from after all. He can be intimidating in so many ways.<p>

He's excited, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His scarf blows around Erzsi, catching her. As she tries to untangle herself he wraps his arms around her. The day is not cold, but the wind is, and she shutters at the sudden warmth. Ivan kisses her hair, a whistle warning of the approaching locomotive.

* * *

><p>The train car looks familiar. Ivan lets her step in first, taking in the compartment. It's large, much larger than the other passengers probably have. And the decor is plush.<p>

"You have been in this compartment," Ivan states, watching her before closing the door. Erzsi realizes she has and why: this was the train that took her, far from the home she loves.

She sits slowly, taking it all in. The train begins to move.

"It is not much," he mutters, and she catches him watching the scenery out the window. "I used to have my own train car. The-" Ivan seems to catch himself, looking at her, then the door, then the ground. He lowers his voice. "The tsar gave me my very own train car. It was very nice. I have it in storage now; I do not want them to take it away."

It's the first time he's mentioned something from before the revolution like this. "Storage on the grounds you mean?" His house is so far from neighbors, she's realized, because he owns all that land. The house itself must be built in the middle, other buildings scattered about visible from her room. Plenty of storage.

"Da," he agrees, taking her in. He seems unsure and maybe, she thinks, he regrets telling her about the tsar. Of speaking nicely of him.

"I would love to see it," she says encouragingly, "when we get home."

His mood lightens at that. "Da," he agrees again.

* * *

><p>Despite the warmer weather, the bed feels empty. Erzsi tries not to toss, knows Ivan is still up reading something in the seat across from her, that she shouldn't disturb him. But she also knows that this time he does not have to guard her all night, that he can sleep if he wants to. Except the compartment only has one bed.<p>

She makes her decision. "Ivan," she whispers softly. There's a pause, and maybe he wasn't heard her, but then there's the sound of a book being closed. He finished rereading Tolstoy months ago; now it's Dostoyevsky, _The Idiot_. Sometimes Erzsi reads over his shoulder, but it's hard for her to follow along. She prefers his summaries; they're always lovely.

"Vanya," he says in a low voice, and she knows what he means. It's what his sisters call him, and now she can call him that too.

"Vanya," she repeats, and can almost hear him smile. "You can come to bed now Vanya." The idea of him sleeping in the chair all night seems wrong.

He shifts.

"My conditions," she starts slowly, because she can tell he's waiting for them, "are no kissing, no feeling me up, and no sex. But I am cold."

In the dark she pulls the blanket up till just her eyes and nose are left exposed, her braided hair covering her neck. She hears the rustle as he removes his jacket; the cold has never bothered him the same. He's built for this sort of weather.

The bed sags as he makes his way under the sheets, the train going round a bend. Her back is to him as he lays down, settling in. His body is so different than what she has become accustomed to.

"Elizabeta?" he asks.

"Erzsi." This time she corrects him; it seems like the right thing to do.

"Erzsi?" he repeats. "Thank you."

In the dark she feels him tuck in the blanket around her back. She hopes he cannot see the smile she is failing to suppress.

* * *

><p>The theater is beautiful; everything is beautiful.<p>

The balcony where they sit has two comfy seats, slightly off center with the stage, that beckon them. Vanya takes her coat as she sits, flipping through the bill. The theater is called Kirov she's learned, and though she's never heard of it, it is absolutely breathtaking inside, from the boxes to the balconies to the curtains.

"You like?" Vanya asks as he sits, placing an arm around her back.

"It is very lovely." His eyes are sparkling and it excites Erzsi, to see him like this, so content with something like ballet. He really does love it; in that moment nothing else matters.

Erzsi had never been to a ballet in her life. She had had the opportunity but it always seemed so silly, especially since Roderich would visit practices, the ballerinas staging mock performances for the couple. Those had always sufficed for her. But this, the grandeur of the real performance before so many watching eyes, this is something completely different. She doesn't even know what ballet they're watching, or who is in it, but it still manages to take her breath away.

The women are all thin, graceful, moving with ease. The men have strong legs, built like she never imagined men could be. At some point she finds herself crying, and Vanya laughs softly when he sees her wiping away the tears. The lighting, the music, the emotion, it all culminates in the last scene, the last moment, and as the curtains close Erzsi wishes that this moment could go on forever.

As the other patrons leave, he turns to her. "I would ask if you liked it, but I think I know the answer." His voice is light; the men next to them laugh as they leave, her face still puffy. Vanya shoots them that look that makes everyone quake in fear, which has the intended affect of making the men leave faster.

Once outside the two nations decide to walk, the state car following them, lights off. "Ignore them," Vanya had told her. "This is their job, to follow us around here." She had wondered what they must think of her, of Vanya, like this.

Water gently moves as they walk along; there's a lot of water here, more than she ever would have thought. Their hotel is close, but her feet ache, not used to wearing heals after so long. Vanya lets her pause as he looks out over the water behind the theater; she removes the pesky shoes.

He's lost in the water, the sun long set, as if swimming through memories. Gently she slips her free hand into one of his large ones, his arms leaning on the rail. He doesn't startle; he raises her hand up, kissing it, before clasping it between his two strong ones. Her head rests on his shoulder.

"I can see why you love it so much," she sighs. Silence envelops them, but that no longer bothers Erzsi. Beszélni ezüst, hallgatni arany; speech is silver, silence is golden. Those words ring so true when she's with the Russian nation, so many things she could never say in his language, so many things he could never say in hers. The silence shields them from the world and for just a while, Erzsi can close her eyes and see them in fields of sunflowers, happy together, warmed by golden rays of sunlight. Moments like these are worth more than all the gold in the world; she collects each one carefully.

* * *

><p>For several days she's alone in the hotel room while Vanya works. She knows she can go out, can explore, but the size of the city scares her, and she knows if something befell her the officials who follow her would not save her.<p>

When Vanya comes back exhausted one night, he collapses on her bed. She strokes his hair, laying beside him.

"Rough day?"

He snorts. "Rough century," and she doesn't miss the pain in his words. He hates this as much as she does, she can tell it gets to him sometimes. She didn't miss his eyes longingly gazing upon the tsar's box in the theater; it must have been where he normally would have sat, all those years at the ballet.

She brings Vanya vodka, and that seems to perk him up. Erzsi even takes a sip herself, but it still burns too much, and he laughs at the face she makes.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, and she watches him. "Tomorrow, would you like to come with me?"

"Where?"

"To see some of the ballerinas. I always visit, and thought perhaps, if you would like…"

Erzsi could have hugged him. "Da," she says, trying to imitate the way he says it. He laughs at that.

The woman is easy to talk to, Ninel Kurgapkina. She tells Erzsi how she's lived here her whole life, in Leningrad, as they walk to the back of the room. She moves with an ease that comes from having practiced ballet for so long. Vanya talks with another dancer, whom she's been informed is Rudolf Nureyev, and kind of a big deal. He's more intimidating than the woman.

"Have you ever danced?" Kurgapkina asks suddenly. Erzsi shakes her head automatically, then stops. The truth is she has, long long ago. She wants to explain, wants to tell her, but the time that's passed is abnormal for a human. By now Vanya and Nureyev have walked over.

"They know," Vanya says, and she misses his meaning. "That I am a country, and that you are too." It surprises her; not that they know, but they haven't mentioned it yet.

"This one," Nureyev starts, gesturing to Vanya, "has been coming to this theater for so long, that the dancers all know." The Russian nation looks sheepish. "He's our best patron."

Turning back to Kurgapkina, Erzsi explains what she had hesitated in saying. "I used to have dance lessons, when I was married. But that was a long time ago." Her chest feels tight as memories of dancing to a far away piano come back.

"Were you good?" the man asks. Erzsi laughs.

"Not at all." The others join in at that.

She doesn't quite know how it happens, but at some point Kurgapkina gives her clothes to change into, and suddenly the woman is giving her an impromptu lesson while Nureyev serves as her partner. Vanya laughs at all of this.

"You come here and try then," Erzsi snaps, smirking so he knows she is frustrated but not angry.

"Oh no no no!" Vanya shakes his head along with his hands. "I do not dance."

"Lie," Nureyev coughs.

Kurgapkina lifts Erzsi's leg higher while Nureyev serves as a counter balance. "Vanya tries, but sadly, not all are meant to be ballerinas," the woman states. In the mirror Erzsi sees his expression: it falls for a moment, before he sighs and smiles at her.

"You," Nureyev grunts as Erzsi is allowed to stand up again, "however, have some talent." She knows that it is a high compliment.

"You should send her to class with your sister," Kurgapkina says to Vanya. "Your sister is good, but this was has a natural grace to her." That makes Erzsi blush.

* * *

><p>On the train back, Erzsi asks about Nataliya's lessons.<p>

"You can go to one, if you'd like," Vanya tells her. "If you enjoy them, I will get you a private instructor, like Nata has." Some time passes before they speak again.

"You like ballerinas?" she asks. Vanya pauses, his mouth open, before smiling.

"Yes."

"You like me?" and she doesn't know why she said it, but it's been building up. She can't play this game anymore, not knowing. Erzsi needs to know.

"No," he whispers, his eyes watching the scenery. Her heart falls until he corrects himself. "Я люблю тебя, хотя я знаю, вы меня ненавидите.," and she knows what it means.

I love you, though I know you hate me.


	6. 1959

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: Extra update today before Yom Kippur. Tell me in the reviews if this was what you were expecting.

* * *

><p>"The Earth is blue... how wonderful. It is amazing." Yuri Gagarin<p>

**1959**

Nataliya still slips threatening notes under her door. Erzsi hadn't been sure who they were from, but she mentioned it in passing to Vanya one day, and he recognized the handwriting at once. She had told him not to worry, and though he tried to punish his sister, they both knew it wouldn't change anything.

It's all the more complicated by the ballet lessons. At first Erzsi had sat in on several group lessons, and she found she did greatly enjoy it. She was nowhere near as good as the other girls, and the instructor always had to help her after, but she stuck to it this time. She was doing ballet by choice, because she wanted to, not because her husband wanted her to.

Though, if she was honest with herself, Vanya's smiles from the door didn't hurt.

After several weeks, he got her her own private lessons. That drew possibly the biggest fit Nataliya had thrown since Erzsi and Gil had moved in. Vanya had given her the key to lock herself and Gil in, listening to Vanya and his sister go at it, screaming and fighting like nothing else. The threat of nuclear war seemed like nothing, compared to the war those two waged.

It was awful.

The next morning Gil is up already and Vanya is sitting on the floor beside the bed, watching Erzsi sleep with his chin on the mattress.

"Good morning," he whispers in Hungarian, and it makes her laugh. He strokes her face gently before rising, and maybe it's because he knows she's still half asleep, but he leans down and kisses her forehead. Vanya's lips are warm but gentle against her cool skin. He had won against his sister.

Now Erzsi has her ballet lessons separate from Nataliya. She doesn't like making Vanya come into town twice, but he always does it with a smile. To repay him, Erzsi lets him hold her hand while they walk from the car to the studio. She likes to smile at the eager little girls, tell them they look very pretty. The children have stopped cowering from Vanya now, and it touches the maternal side of Erzsi that hasn't been awaken in so long to see him sit with two little girls demonstrating the different foot positions. Each one they show him, he names without fail, grinning with sublime delight.

It's sweet.

* * *

><p>It's Nataliya's day for ballet lessons when Erzsi finds herself being dragged from the dinning room where she was setting up for lunch. Vanya's hand pulls her, guiding the way, out of the house. The truth is, after ten years here, she hasn't really explored a lot of the house and grounds. She casts a glance back over her shoulder, noting for the first time that the house is bright yellow.<p>

From the outside it looks like a regular barn, their final destination, but from the way the Russian is bouncing up and down in excitement she can tell it must be something more. When she cracks a smile, he pushes open the sliding barn door, strong shoulders doing the heavy lifting. It's warm out, the middle of summer; Erzsi can't believe how nice it is. She removes her sweater, revealing the dress beneath that, with the help of Irina and the silent blessing of Vanya leaving them be, she had altered into a halter sundress. She lets the skirt blow around her legs, the sun warming her back, as Vanya rushes to the other side of the barn, opening another door to let in more light, the wind blowing through her hair gently.

Then she sees it.

It is so much more magnificent than she could have imagined. A bit dusty from lack of use, but she can tell it's bright red beneath the settled dirt, the metal gleaming in the now-found sun. The windows all have drawn curtains, guarding the secrets of the compartment within. Vanya runs back to her then, looking between what was once his proud train car to what was once a proud nation.

"So?" he asks impatiently.

"It's beautiful," she manages, looking up into his face. His smile is so genuine, so real.

He helps her up into the car, and they work their way from front to back. Erzsi turns each item over in her hand. Vanya doesn't really comment on much, but she gets the impression that this is where he hides things: photos of the tsar's daughters surrounding him, drawings by children, a box full of ribbons of various colors.

The bookshelf (because of course Vanya would have a bookshelf) is behind glass, probably to keep the books from falling. All the tomes are unfamiliar to Erzsi, and as she mentally translates the titles she can tell why. Some of them are old, but some are new; they have to have been smuggled in. All of them are illegal.

With each step she takes Vanya follows, watching her take in each object. When they reach the end of the train car, where a bed long enough for even Vanya to stretch out comfortably fills up the space, she turns to him.

The Hungarian hadn't realized how close he was behind her when she turned, and somehow her body ends up pressed into his, his hands grabbing her to steady her swaying form. His chest is massive as she looks straight ahead before chancing a glance up into those purple eyes. There's something there, something carnal, and it both excites and frightens Erzsi to know she can still do that to a man, especially one as stoic and blackhearted as he is.

But no, that's not true. He pulls her close, into a sweet embrace, one hand running through her hair. His heart isn't all black, and Erzsi now knows that. Parts of it may be, dead from years of seeing horror and destruction, but Erzsi nows know there is more to Ivan Braginski than that. There is a part of his heart that is still alive, pounding in his chest as she lays her head over it, feeling each beat pass. Their hearts are in sync now as she wraps her arms around him.

The moment is perfect.

* * *

><p>They're back out in the barn again weeks later. Pants have returned to her room, including shorts; Erzsi knows Vanya meant well taking them, and means even more returning them.<p>

Her shorts are riding up, and her shirt isn't buttoned up nearly high enough, as she leans into another box, trying to reach the content at the bottom. "Vanya!" she shouts. "Help me!"

She hears him shift behind her before pausing, and when she turns her head, whipping her hair over her shoulder, she sees him and laughs. His hands are midair as he takes in the sight, trying to figure out where to grab. Her ass is level with his face, creamy thighs fully exposed. She wiggles her hips.

"There please," she giggles, and he just looks at her with the most amused face. Finally he obliges her, holding fast to her hips, as she leans back into his grip trustingly. He lowers her back down to the ground, the last book in the box clutched in her hands.

Erzsi holds it up for him to take when someone comes into the barn, someone she doesn't recognize. The man is lanky, out of breath, panting. "Braginski," he murmurs, and within seconds Vanya's face as hardened, the hands that were outstretched for the book having fallen to his side. He makes his way to the man, and the two speak in rapid Russian outside the barn. A breezes blows through; the season is changing as September progresses. Soon it'll be back to long pants and thick sweaters and ugly dresses.

Her heart definitely misses more than a few beats as strong hands suddenly grab her from behind, spinning her about. She can hardly catch her breath when her whole body is turned to Vanya, who's spinning, holding her above his head.

"We did it!" he keeps yelling in Russian. It takes a few more of his shouts for her to discern the words.

"Did what?" Her head is all over the place, and she's not quite sure which way is up anymore.

Just as quickly she's put back down, and now Vanya is crouching down to look her in the face. His hands grab her cheeks, and she tells herself it's instinct that her hands come up to hold his.

"The moon! We landed a spacecraft on the moon!" It takes a few minutes for Erzsi to process what he's said, but then it hits her. Her face hurts, she's grinning so wide, and Vanya's must hurt too because his grin is even bigger. She throws her arms about his neck and he lifts her into the air, spinning her some more.

Small hands come to rest on the large chest as she leans back, and there it is again, the glint in his eyes that Erzsi sees in little moments like these. They're living on borrowed time, it's not suppose to be like this, but in that moment it doesn't matter. As if he can read her mind, Vanya places her down, their lips meeting in the middle of their height difference. His lips are softer than she'd expected, yet still hard and demanding. Erzsi's hands are still clutching at his chest as the larger arms draw her in closer, her head turned all the way up to allow him access to her mouth.

That blond hair is soft as her fingers rake lazily through it, groaning as his tongue dares to enter her mouth. It wiggles in her cavity and she giggles, finally breaking the kiss. They both pant for want of air, but no longer for want of each other.

* * *

><p>For today's date Vanya blindfolds Erzsi. As soon as he does it she worries she made the wrong choice, allowing him to court her. He's slow in making his moves, and now it's nearly a year having passed since their first kiss, but Erzsi likes it. Never has a man treated her like this, romantic dinners, slow dances, stolen kisses followed by deep blushes, all without the rush and expectation of marriage or war or all the other things they must go through as countries. Vanya is putty in her hands and does anything she asks of him; it makes Erzsi feel human.<p>

His strong hands guide her, holding tight to her now-thin arms, until they stop somewhere. They had walked a long way from the house, Vanya blabbing about how he hoped she liked it, he wanted it to be a surprise, he didn't think she had seen this part of the grounds, her window was on the other side, yada yada. But the suspense was killing her, fingers itching to removing the blindfold and see the surprise.

One of Vanya's hands finds hers, pulling it to run over the petals of a flower. Now her heart is pounding in her chest as the large hands remove the blindfold.

A sea of yellow sunflowers face her, waving as the wind blows, the large flowers bobbing under their own weight. It's unbelievable, to see so many sunflowers in one place; she had thought they were perhaps too far north for them.

"Vanya." The name escapes her as he stands behind her, pulling her back to his chest with strong arms.

In the center of the flowers there's a clearing, and Erzsi finds Vanya has set out a picnic for them. They eat the food slowly, and after lay in the sun, absorbing its rays before the long winter that always comes too soon, staying for too long. Erzsi has shed her sweater and shoes, pulling her skirt up to tan her legs. But Vanya, Vanya still has his scarf and coat on, no matter the weather, like always.

Erzsi might like taking it slow, but she much prefers being mischievous.

His eyes are closed, hands behind his head. Lacy fingers ghost his form, moving up the line of buttons until she takes hold of the first one, slipping it from its slot. That's when Vanya opens his eyes, surprised, and finds her smiling down at him, leaning in to his face.

"Aren't you hot?" she asks with half-closed eyes, her fingers releasing the second button from its prison.

"N-no," he splutters, his whole body frozen with shock.

Once the final button is free, her hands move to push open the offending article. That's when his arms come down, hands gripping Erzsi's wrists a little too tightly. She gasps instinctually at the pain, and he loosens his grip a little.

"Sorry," he whispers, sitting up on his elbows.

"Why…" Erzsi isn't exactly sure where to start; she looks Vanya in the eyes. "Why do you never remove your coat? It's always a coat or jacket or something. I don't…." She swallows hard, gaze dropping to take in his torso. "I don't know what you looks like." Eleven years, and she still barely knows him, she wants to say.

With a daring he rarely displays, Erzsi feels Vanya lay a hand on her shoulder, fingers running down the side of her body, taking in her curves, gently cupping the side of her breast, until it comes to rest on her hips. It's the most intimate of touches, and her breathing becomes shallow from such a simple act. She knows he's still watching her but refuses to meet his gaze until Vanya's other hand pulls her chin up.

"You," he says slowly, and it's in Hungarian. "You, Erzsi, are beautiful, inside and outside. I am not beautiful. Not inside, not outside, not anyway. That is why."

* * *

><p>When she closes the door, Erzsi leans back against it, sliding down the cool wood. In the end, Vanya only removed his scarf, allowing her to where it as they walked through tall sunflowers. He bought this land because of those sunflowers, loves them more than his books and the train car and the hidden treasures inside it. They make him feel small, remind him of happier days, he told her. He loves these sunflowers more than anything else, except maybe Erzsi, he said.<p>

Gil is on the bed, flipping through a book. He eyes her suspiciously, and she knows it's her happiness that aggravates him.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks with a disgust in his voice she doesn't miss, though years of conflict have helped her build an immunity to his stinging tone. "You hated him when we got here."

"Evés közben jön meg az étvágy."

"And what the fuck does that mean?" His Hungarian is still as shit as ever.

Erzsi sighs, blinking up at the ceiling. "It means you learn to like things after a while." She can still feel his lips on hers, his hands on her neck.

The Prussian flips over in bed. "We are his prisoners, and you let him take you on dates. He owns us Erzsi, I hope you haven't forgotten that."

"I know," she says quietly, remembering the softness of his touch. "I haven't forgotten." Her head echoes with the sound of his voice, "Szeretlek", I love you.


	7. 1961

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: I started crying rereading part of this. I don't know if I conveyed fully the emotions I wanted to, but I damn well tried. Plus I keep thinking I've moved into territory no one else will like on some of the later chapter, but if you've stuck with it this far then I hope you'll enjoy it to the end.

* * *

><p>"A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on. Ideas have endurance without death." John F. Kennedy<p>

**1961**

Her body moves up down as Vanya breathes, Erzsi laying on his chest. The sun is bright though the weather is cool, both countries sporting sweaters to keep the chill out of their bones. But Vanya had wrapped his scarf around her neck, and his arms warm her back. Her fingers run up and down his arm, feeling the dips and muscle beneath the thick fabric. She knows he's asleep.

Erzsi chances a glance at the peaceful face. All the tension is gone from those lines, his smile small but still there. He told her he dreams of laying in a field of sunflowers with her, but what does he dream of while actually laying in that field with her? His mind is like a museum for a million innocent thoughts that neither time nor blood have covered over, ideas that have withstood so many tests.

In the back of her mind she knows some of the other nations are judging her. Even Gil judges her. They don't get why she lets Vanya treat her like this, don't get why she smiles at him and kisses him. Maybe they think she's using him, that she's as twisted as he is. Maybe they think she's as crazy as Nataliya, for falling for someone like Ivan, the epitome of all of Russia, all of the Soviet Union.

Soft fingers trace the path from one eyebrow to the corner of his lip, and Erzsi knows she doesn't care what they think. They don't know why she does what she does because they have never seen this man she sees here before her. She rarely asks Vanya for things, doesn't try to use their relationship as leverage for her country. Because at the end of the day only she knows how much of a prisoner he is in this house too, how little his officials care for him. And she knows it's because he loves her, Erzsi knows it's because the ministers want him to break that Hungarian heart he could never hurt. So she doesn't ask much of Vanya, beyond new dresses and a space to practice her ballet and his love.

He already gives her too much, and she gives him nothing in return.

* * *

><p>The breakfast mail comes, as usual, and Erzsi gets nothing, as usual. So she sips her coffee, waiting for Gil to pass over whatever his government has sent him. When she puts the cup down, she sees his face change, watches his whole body tense.<p>

Gil stands suddenly, and she stands too. But he leaves the table in a haste and she knows not to follow him. Her eyes watch him leave, and she realizes that Vanya stood too. He looks as confused as she feels at what just happened.

* * *

><p>The first chance she gets to ask what has happened is the next day, when she brings Vanya lunch. Gil has been locked in his room since he got whatever letter upset him; she leaves food outside his door, always coming back to find it all eaten.<p>

Several moments pass while Vanya bites at his food; they both know she's going to ask him about Gil, so there's no rush. Erzsi draws the curtains, bathing the room in light. His office is really quite lovely.

"It's about his brother," Vanya whispers, and she almost misses the words. "The letter." He's leaning back in his chair, watching her. Slowly she makes her way to him, sitting on his lap. Large arms encircle her.

"Is Lutz ok?"

The Russian sighs deeply. "Da."

"Then what's happened?" He's not looking at her, Vanya's eyes on the papers he had been reading when she entered. "Vanya?"

They're like glass, cool to the touch, when the purple eyes finally meet her green ones. He's dying inside, she can see it happening. It frightens her to watch him go through this; even during the great wars, her three German men had never been so affected like this. Erzsi is about to hug him when he answers.

"We're building a wall," he says with forced pride, and she knows his heart isn't behind his words. "Around West Berlin."

She doesn't realize she's slipping to the ground until she's kneeling between his legs, her heart threatening to burst from her threat. They haven't had contact with the other two German men in years, and this wall cements that they never will again. Unless….

"Vanya," she pleads, her hands pulling his to her. He stiffens, and they both know it's because she's going to ask for something she shouldn't. But this isn't about their relationship, about them; this is about Gil and the brother he loves more than anyone else in the world. "Vanya, please, I am begging you-"

"Get up," he grunts.

"No, Vanya, please, listen to me-"

His hands move in a circle, releasing themselves from her grasp to take hold of her wrists. He pulls her to him suddenly, leaning down so their faces are level.

"Héderváry," and it lacks all the affection he normally has for her. "I cannot stop this." For a moment the air between them is as volatile as it ever was.

She shakes her head. "No, that's not…." Erzsi swallows hard; the tears are forming already. "We never got to say goodbye," she finally manages in a whisper, her lungs suddenly devoid of air.

Nothing in Vanya changes for several minutes, so she continues.

"Please, Vanya, just… just let Gil say goodbye to his brother. A phone call, that is it. Please." She reaches up for his cheek, stroking it gently. His eyes close, leaning into the touch, but those violets were still cold. "I'll do anything."

There's another pause before he repeats her last word. "Anything?" It scares her, but she's made up her mind. She nods.

* * *

><p>Construction has already begun on the wall by the time Gil and Erzsi are escorted into Vanya's office by one of the Baltic states. There are two chairs before his desk, and they sit slowly in them. Before them there is a telephone.<p>

Vanya is staring at his clasped hands on the desk, and though Erzsi wants to reach out for him she knows better. Their relationship has cooled since she asked for this. Maybe it's because it was something for Gil, maybe it's because it reminded Vanya that she is his prisoner, and this separation for her and Gil is their punishment. Maybe it's because he's finally realized that she doesn't love him, not the way he loves her. Not yet at least, she tells herself to try and ease away some of the guilt.

The phone rings.

Without looking up Vanya nods, and Erzsi grasps one of Gil's hands on the other picks up the phone, holding it between them to listen. A stiff Russian voice informs them that this call is being monitored before their is a beep, and then-

"Brother?"

Lutz sounds so small, and Erzsi starts to cry at just the simple word. Her baby, her little baby. She used to make him lunch, buy him clothes, sit with him during storms. Do they feed him good German food? Do they let him go for his runs? Read his books? Does he get to visit with others? Is her baby ok without them? Does he remember what they look like? How much they love him?

Gil can't even form a sound for several long seconds before he coughs, trying to clear his throat, and Erzsi sees the tears wetting his face too. "Hey West," he tries, but his voice cracks.

The pause tells them that Lutz is crying too.

"Are you ok Brother?" His big brother was always his first concern; some things never change.

"Yeah, of course West. Me and Erzsi are fine."

There's another pause before Lutz speaks to her. "Erzsi? Are you there?"

Her body is shaking and Gil changes hands, wrapping an arm around her. "Yes, Lutz, oh God yes I'm here! I'm here!" She hadn't meant to talk, but now she's holding the phone between them, both Gil's arms holding her.

"I love you. I love both of you." Lutz was always so stoic, never showed his emotions in front of others. Surely there are officials there too, on his end.

"We love you too," Erzsi gasps, and Gil buries his head in her shoulder. "We miss you so much baby, just hearing your voice, I'm sorry we're crying so much liebling."

"Nein," he says, and she can tell he's smiling. "I am crying too. It's ok."

She tries to picture Lutz as he talks on the phone. In her mind he's still wearing a black shirt, which in the past was always too tight across his muscled chest. She imagines him thinner, like they are, but his eyes still shine in her imagination like the most brilliant blue of skies.

"Do they treat you alright?" she asks, and Gil pulls himself together enough to place his ear besides hers, to hear the response.

"Ja, it's… it's not bad here. I've seen some new places. It's, um-" and it clicks in her mind that he's holding back, afraid of how they are being treated.

"We're fine too," she whispers, knowing full well that that man is still listening, that Vanya is right across the desk watching them make a spectacle of themselves. "It's colder here than in Germany, but we're fine too."

"Good," he replies, and she knows he doesn't full believe her words.

"West," Gil says, "no matter what happens, you're my brother. Our liebling."

"I know."

There's a moment of silence before the Soviet official interrupts, informing them in Russian that they have less then thirty seconds.

"What did he-" Lutz starts to ask.

"We love you," Erzsi interrupts quickly, and she knows he immediately understands what the message said.

"We love you more than anything else," Gil adds.

"I wish I could see you again," Lutz moans.

"I see you every night in my dreams, Lutz, don't ever forget how we look-"

"You're strong West, and we love you more than we ever loved ourselves-"

"I would give all this up to be with you two-"

"I love you-"

"I love you-"

"I love you-"

And then they hear the tone of the call being disconnected.

* * *

><p>Erzsi wasn't sure for how long they sat after the call ended, holding each other, crying. Eventually Gil excused himself, going upstairs to cry in private. That's when Vanya sits in the chair he left behind.<p>

She can barely look him in the eyes, she's so ashamed of herself. "Thank you," she stutters, her body shaking again. "I am sorry for cry-"

"Don't be." He cuts her off, and suddenly his hands are grasping hers. "I don't care that you cried."

When she looks up he's eyeing her with pity. "He was always my baby," she offers weakly, trying to hope Vanya will understand in even the slightest. "He was always my son. I don't care what he's done, he's perfect in my eyes."

Vanya wipes away a tear. "I know the feeling," and it reminds Erzsi of the picture in the train car, Vanya surrounded by the tsar's four daughters, all smiling brightly.

"What was it like, losing your girls?" She hopes he understands her meaning.

It's as if he's looking right through her. "I had wished I could have just laid down and died with them. I wasn't there, when they died;I should have been."

"You never talk about them." At that he snickers sourly.

"Видна из Кремля вся советская земля," all of the Soviet country is visible from the Kremlin. Vanya reminds her of it every time they leave the house, as if Erzsi could forget. But it reminds her that they're both prisoners here, and though Vanya rarely shows it, he really does understand.

"You, um," he starts, casting about for words, "you didn't ask after Edelstein."

"I guess I didn't," Erzsi admits, thinking back on it. She starts to tell herself that if there had been more time, but the truth is, she hadn't thought of him.

* * *

><p>That night they're the last to retire. Erzsi leans sleepily against Vanya up the stairs, down the hall, until she kisses him goodnight. She makes to leave for her own room when his hand catches hers.<p>

"What are you-" She's so tired she can barely put up a fight, but then his eyes flash something dark, and it reminds her of him throwing her to the ground, screaming that if he could not have her, no one could.

"You said anything," he whispers dangerously, pushing open the door to his bedroom. There's no point fighting; she did say anything, and she meant it for that one chance to hear her liebling Lutz.

The room is dark, and it seems the walls and furniture are as well, making it hard to discern everything. In one corner a fire is already roaring, warming the room. Straight ahead is a large four-poster bed.

"My conditions," he starts slowly, purring in her ear. Erzsi had frozen just inside the door; now she hears Vanya close the door before coming back to whisper. "No kissing." He plants a kiss on the side of her neck. "No feeling me up." Warm hands graze across her hips and stomach, fingers locking together there. "And no sex. But I am cold." He gives himself away at the end, his tone becoming light and teasing.

"Sounds familiar," she quips, turning in his arms to look at him. She likes her room, loves it even, knows Vanya picked it just for her. Gil normally sleeps with her, and it's nice to have another body there, to have her best friend so close.

Can she do this?

"Why?" she asks, her hands holding his face.

"I am selfish," he says, pulling her to his chest tight. "I love you and though you do not love me, I cannot let you be with anyone else. You belong to me."

"I want to love you," she confesses into the darkness. His only response is to kiss her forehead before they settle in for the night.

Vanya stays on his side of the bed, like a gentleman. It is warm and so comfortable between the sheets, but Erzsi still feels wrong.


	8. 1962

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: This was is longer than the other chapters, and at first I tried to prune it down, but I just couldn't. The end kept getting longer; don't worry, I'll come back to the topic in the next chapter. All will be revealed! Master plan! Something!

In looking up Vanya's physical description I found Himapapa's comment and drawing about how Ivan is "big boned" and thought that adorable, since it sets him apart from the other characters. If you've never seen that description or the doodle, stop and go look for it. I'll wait, go ahead. You have an Internet connection, you can do it. You need to set the mood for this chapter, see what Erzsi sees. Done? Good!

See if you can find my favorite line; go on, guess, I'll even write a fic for whoever can get it first. I'll write any little moment between these two if you can find my favorite line. But if you don't win, don't worry, there's a poll on my profile for what to write after this story!

* * *

><p>"Knowledge is gained by learning; trust by doubt; skill by practice; and love by love." Thomas S. Szasz<p>

**1962**

Most days Erzsi refuses to leave his side. Vanya's sick, really sick, and the house is hushed because of it. He's burning up and has trouble rolling onto his side. They gave up trying to get him to eat yesterday; his stomach just couldn't handle it. He's spent the last five days under the sheets, barely conscious, but has been sick for longer than that. Irina checks on him once in a while, telling Erzsi to go eat. His sister was the one to remove his pajamas, in some vain hope to give him relief. Erzsi forced a laugh when Irina told her, Vanya still too modest to let her see his body despite the bed they've shared for over a year.

But it was the only time she's laughed since he's taken ill. In the back of her mind she wonders if Alfred is sick too, and hopes he is. Hopes he's suffering the way Vanya is now under her watch, and the thought surprises her. The Russian's face tenses for a moment, and she wipes his forehead with a damp cloth. Everything in this stupid stalemate is idiotic, and she wishes both nations could just get over themselves. So many people are suffering because of them.

Vanya's mouth opens a little, and he makes two sounds: The first is like an r, the second like a z. He's trying to say her name.

She leans in close, shushing him and kissing his hot cheek. "I'm here darling, I'm here." His face eases, and he almost sighs before falling asleep again.

* * *

><p>She's with Irina in town, the first time she's been allowed to go without Vanya. It's biting cold out, the new year fast approaching, and he's getting better everyday, almost as if he was never ill. That's just how it's always been for countries, and too soon officials forget how ill they made their countries. Not that any came to see Vanya.<p>

Erzsi wants to buy him something. Christmas isn't allowed here, and even if it was, it would be on a different day than she is used to. But Irina understood when she told her, that she wanted to give him something instead of always taking, and so Irina arranged for them to go into town.

Books are too obvious and she's afraid he already owns every book she could ever buy. Vanya is perpetually attached to his scarf and coat, so clothing is stupid. Irina had assured Erzsi she knew just what she should give Vanya, and Erzsi hopes she's right as the Ukrainian leads the way.

It's an old shop that sells sweets, and the woman behind the counter is just as old and as sweet. When they enter the woman smiles and leaves to go get something. Irina winks. "Don't open this here," she whispers to the Hungarian as the woman comes back. Erzsi pays for the package, unsure of what exactly she's bought, but she trusts Irina and the knowledge she has of Vanya.

* * *

><p>December 25th, and her legs are draped over Vanya's as they lay before the fire in his room. It's too cold tonight to lay in bed; they had moved all the pillows and blankets to before the roaring fire, holding each other close.<p>

It was chocolate, in the small package she bought. German chocolate. Vanya breaks off a small piece and pops it into his mouth, clothing his eyes and savoring the taste. He breaks off another piece, offering it to Erzsi.

She closes her eyes, taking the piece from his fingers, making sure to suck their tips into her mouth before the chocolate begins to melt in her warm mouth too. Erzsi hears him take a sharp breath, silently congratulating herself for having that effect on him. She kisses him softly to thank him.

They're in too deep. Even if she'd wanted to, she couldn't break this off with Vanya. He's in love, completely and utterly. His books are now in Hungarian, and though it takes him longer to get through, and he often has to look up words, he perseveres and the simple action touches her. The bookshelf in her room has books in German now, and she knows that though he'll never admit it, Gil eats them up, ravaging the pages with how quickly he whips through them.

This morning Vanya had wished her a happy Christmas, holding her body close to his under the sheets. He was warm and big and soft, and she kissed him deeply, so shocked that he remembered. When she gave him the chocolate she didn't have to explain the day. It reminded Erzsi a bit of home.

"I am sorry I did not buy you anything," Vanya whispers suddenly.

She strokes his cheek. "You give me everything. I do not need anything, except you." He smiles, knows that that's the closest he can get to hearing her say she loves him. When the moment is right, she had explained to him. She's sure when the moment is right she'll know, and he's fine waiting.

* * *

><p>New Years, and the other nations are all smashed. Vanya didn't drink, insisting someone in the house had to be sober. Erzsi didn't drink either; vodka will just never agree with her. So while the other nations all lay drunk and asleep throughout the antechamber, hallway, and dining room downstairs, the two lovers snuck upstairs to their bedroom.<p>

She needs him, is burning for him. He throws her onto the bed; it only serves to turn her on more. They've never done it before with each other, though both know they are no virgins. Vanya stands between her parted legs as she reaches up, stroking his face. His eyes betray his need too; there is no turning back.

Vanya's arms sweep under her back, lifting her arching form up as he bends over to bite at her neck. With some difficulty, his body never giving more than it has to with their forms pressed together, she removes her sweater, the cold air rushing in through the remaining layer of thin shirt beneath. He lets Erzsi down then, fingers quickly releasing each button down her shirt until he's yanking the fabric off her body, lips trailing across the skin that he's never been granted access to before. She feels his hands playing with her bra as she kicks off her shoes, his lips pushing down the straps until she's exposed to Vanya and the cold winter night, her pale skin covered expectedly in goosebumps.

When he pulls back to take her in, the only light coming from the fireplace behind her, he stares in wonder. "So beautiful," he manages before grabbing her hips, grinding into her to show his very evident want. Her groan earns her two hands on her breasts, playing with her nipples, his mouth alternating between the two before trailing lower. Her skin is cold as soon as he leaves it, so much colder without his warm kisses, making her center grow tighter, wetter.

The Russian makes to start on her skirt when she grabs his hair, pulling him to her mouth. He's demanding, so demanding, his tongue waging war with hers, and this time she wins, exploring his mouth. He tastes of vodka, that devil said he hadn't drunk any! Pulling back she takes a moment to regain her breath.

"Vanya," she whispers, and he moans at just her saying his name. Erzsi says it again, "Vanya," and he thrusts against her hips. "Vanya, take off your coat," and her hands pull at the lapels. He's never let her see him without his coat, always somehow slips under and out from the covers of the bed before she can see.

Standing slowly, he watches her before his hands move to work on his own buttons, eyes never leaving hers. Finished with the line of metal buttons, he removes his scarf, letting it fall to the ground. That's when his face turns from her, blushing. It's such an unfamiliar sight.

"I want you," she moans to encourage him, bucking her hips to show she meant it. He relents, his arms pushing aside the jacket, allowing it to fall, the sweater beneath following. He's wearing only his undershirt now.

He's big. Not muscle big, like her German baby, but not lithe like her former Austrian lover. He's not fat either, though she supposes he may look it at first glance. But she knows there is muscle beneath his skin, has felt it. Vanya still isn't looking at her when she sits up, her hands pulling at the undershirt to remove it. Silently he obliges, Erzsi laying back again to admire his naked torso.

It's hard for her to put her finger on it. Her body is so tiny, but she's also from a different type of country, where the winters are more mild and the diet is different. Vanya is different, and though it takes her aback, she likes it. His lines are soft but strong, and she reaches out to trace one, following it from the center of his chest to under one pec. There's something perfectly imperfect about him.

She knows he's waiting for her to say something, so Erzsi tries to think of the best words to convey her thoughts. Drawing a blank she instead sits up, pulling his body to hers. Vanya seems startled, as if surprised that anyone would want him, besides crazy Nataliya. Erzsi lets her lips fall on his jaw, kissing her way down his neck. She licks at the hollow above his Adam's apple before kiss it, feeling it vibrate beneath her mouth. As she kisses her way lower, Erzsi's hands begin to roam Vanya's body; though she cannot see it, she can feel the hard muscle beneath the surface.

He stops her when she tries to shift, trying to kiss lower down his body to that light trail of hair. He pulls her up, crushing their lips together, lowering her back down onto the bed. Vanya gasps as their hips meet again, burying his face in the crook of her neck, pausing in his actions.

"Erzsi," he murmurs, and she tightens her grip around his back, her fingers scratching up and down his spine. "Want you." It's hard for him to speak.

"Want you too," she echoes, "want you now." It's hard for her too.

"Don't want to hurt you," he replies, kissing where his lips move. "Not good at going slow," and her mind flashes back to the first few years here, listening to him take his sister. He was always rough, always demanding, nothing like he is now.

"Just love me," Erzsi says, one hand ruffling his hair. "That's enough."

The large hands return to where they had been, pulling down her skirt and stockings and long socks, hooking the panties to come down too. As he removes the layers, she shivers in the cold air, fighting the urge to close her legs. She's still laying off the side of the bed, no sheets to protect her naked flesh.

The purple eyes take in the sight, those fingers running along her thighs. "Beautiful," he says again, the fingers leaving to remove the Russian's pants, which are discarded just as quickly, leaving his body naked. He is glorious.

As Vanya climbs over her, Erzsi can't help but let one hand fall down between them, grabbing his manhood. She's not sure if he's as long as she's used to, but he's wider without a doubt. Vanya's legs force hers up as his chest hovers over hers. She shivers again, both in need and from the cold.

Quick as he's there he removes himself from her, and Erzsi is confused until strong arms scoop her up, shifting her so they lay under the sheets. As he climbs back over her, he pulls the sheets up high, the warmth of their bodies building.

It's the greatest feeling in the world, Vanya kissing down her breasts, her stomach, touching and licking her center until she screams, her fingers buried in his hair. He plays with her more, kissing those thighs on either side of his head, and the fact that she can barely see what he's doing beneath the sheets, only see his head moving, makes it all feel that much better until he has her screaming a second time, his tongue buried in her. That's when he finally comes up, his erection pressing into her thigh, shadows cast on his face from the fire.

Hungarian hands pump him, teasing him. She tries all the things she's learned over the years that men like, noting which ones make Vanya pant loudest into her ear, still holding his chest above hers. She's sure he's about to come when one hand pulls her from him, scooping up her knees to position himself at her entrance. Erzsi closes her eyes in anticipation, throwing her head back, and he kisses her sensitive neck as he thrusts in, finally uniting them after so long.

The feeling! Oh God, he fills her completely as he thrusts in again, his hips slow in their movements, and it drives her crazy. He finally lays down on her, and Erzsi loves the feeling of her breasts pressing into that broad chest, her fingers pulling at his back, their lips locked. As he goes on his thrusting becomes harder, and she knows he likes it rough, so she meets him with her own hips, because she likes it rough too. The sound of their skin slapping is muffled by the thick comforter over them, the fire burning as she comes again too soon, screaming his name louder than before. That's when Vanya grabs her hips, thrusting his hardest, until Erzsi feels him fill her, feels him come inside her.

He rolls off of her, scooping her up to follow along. They hide under the sheets, kissing and stroking each other even still, their legs intertwined. Erzsi doesn't even realize she's crying until Vanya kisses away a tear, and they fall asleep like that. She hasn't felt this loved in years and years.

* * *

><p>Vanya sits beside her on her own bed, his eyes soft and caring. She doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want him to be here. "Send me away," she mutters.<p>

"Why?" His hands slip under hers, where they were laying over her stomach.

This isn't possible. Shouldn't be. For days she felt unwell, unable to join Vanya in strolling through the gardens, the weather turning warm in spring. Now she has her answer, and though many of the other nations thought it an impossible situation, Erzsi knew the truth: she was carrying Vanya's child.

Years ago she had been pregnant, given birth to a son. Ferdinánd, they'd named him, Ferdinánd Edelstein. All that love they had poured into that little boy, all that love they lost when they found him drowned in a small puddle, the remanent of a strong rainstorm that had passed over their garden in Vienna. She could never look at Roderich the same after that; they both knew their human son would die too soon, but two was just too young. He blamed himself for the boys death, and though she didn't want to, she blamed him too, for letting him go out, for not watching him close enough, for not being able to turn back the hands of time. Everything changed after Ferdi died; she just couldn't love her husband anymore. When she looked at Roderich she saw his little face.

"I'll give birth elsewhere, put the baby up for adoption. You can't want this, want to see me like this, it was awful last time." Vanya cups the side of her face as Erzsi speaks. No one else would understand their relationship, and now she was suppose to carry this obvious proof of a relationship they never should have started? She hated Russia, hated the Soviet Union, but she could not hate Vanya.

"I will always want you," he whispers, kissing her lips before moving her hands, pushing up her shirt. He kisses her belly, a small swell, hard, forming there, and she wonders if it'll be different this time. It had been awful giving birth, she'd wanted Roderich there but he never came. Once the baby was born her husband came; maybe the servants had never told him, it had been a different day and age, but he should have known. Though her husband was happy, Erzsi's heart had felt defeated after that day. Maybe that was when she lost Roderich.

They've only had a few months of love making, her and Vanya, less than the years and years she had with Roderich, and yet here they are. Against her belly Vanya whispers, "Nincsen rózsa tövis nélkül," every rose has it's thorn, a reminder that nothing is perfect. When she still refuses to look at him, Vanya sighs. "I am not good at love, no good with a family. You have been a second chance Erzsi. But I want to do this, with you.

"Please."

And he means it so much, his plea is so genuine, that she can't help but say yes, because deep down she still wants to be a mother. To love this baby like she never could her little Ferdi. They only have a few months, the baby is coming in January, but in Vanya's eyes she can see that it'll be alright. Times have changed, and it's going to be alright.


	9. 1963

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: This chapter features everyone's favorite, General Winter! Who doesn't love snow? Erzsi, that's who by the end of this. And now I now know so much more about pregnancy and babies, and believe me, I already knew a lot about babies. So I don't care if anybody doesn't like this chapter, this has my favorite moment in this span of time and I'm very happy with it.

Plus we're in the middle of a sort of lack of larger historical moments as have been and will be in the course of the Cold War and specifically Soviet-Hungarian relations, so I've got to fill in somehow. And I promise, everything comes together nicely in the end, 1989 will be just as moving as 1949.

* * *

><p>"May you live a thousand years, and I, a thousand less one day; that I might never know the world without you." Hungarian proverb<p>

**1963**

Gil was the first one she told, in a hushed whisper. He had locked himself in his room for several days, refusing to let her in. One night Vanya came back and told Erzsi Gil was ok with it now; she had been afraid her lover had done something, but Gil had shaken his head when she said so. He said they'd had a heart-to-heart, and that he was sorry for upsetting her. When Gil hugged her, he asked if he would get to be godfather again. They always bounced back quickly.

Irina was told by Vanya next. Erzsi knew he had told her when the older woman burst into the room, hugging her tightly. Irina had really grown on her.

The other nations were a different matter. She had told Vanya to leave it to her, and she would figure it out. Standing before her wardrobe, she sighs. None of her clothes fit right, her belly is getting too big to hide. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Gil's reflection in the mirror.

"How do I tell them?" she whispers, and he knows who she means.

Prussian hands push around dresses until he pulls one out. "With this," he says proudly. Erzsi could have hit him for being so stupid. Seeing the look on her face, Gil elaborated. "Don't say anything. If you walk in with this, there's no way they'll miss that baby bump of yours." One hand leaves the dress, resting on the life inside her. Erzsi ponders what he said while he rubs her belly.

"Will you walk with me?" Everyone would be in the antechamber by now, lounging. She knows Vanya is waiting for her before that for-once empty fireplace.

"I thought you'd never ask," and he kisses her cheek, helping her change.

* * *

><p>One by one the nations look up as they walk from the bottom of the staircase to the antechamber, linked arm in arm. Gil was right; they all look at each other, but no one says anything. Erzsi even brushes a hand down her belly, to really drive the point home. There's no doubt as to who the father is.<p>

Irina stands, giving her a kiss on the cheek as Gil sits on the window seat. But Erzsi continues on to Vanya, who is watching her from the couch.

"Subtle," he murmurs, kissing her. Now the others are murmuring too.

* * *

><p>A few weeks later they're walking through town. As they pass the ballet studio Erzsi can't help but look in the front window longingly, and is pleasantly surprised when some of the little girls perk at the sight of her, running outside. They all chat away happily, taking turns touching her belly. She's getting big now, can no longer hide her pregnancy. One of the girls even feels the baby move, and she's just so ecstatic that even Vanya joins in laughing.<p>

The townspeople are all nicer now. They've always been kind to Erzsi, but now they're nicer to Vanya too. It reminds her of going to Leningrad, the train station. Vanya is a part of the community, but always a dark part, to be avoided. She supposes the sight of him walking with his pregnant girlfriend makes them all reconsider what type of a person he is. So she smiles and they smile back.

* * *

><p>Surprising no one, Soviet officials take the news the worst. Erzsi isn't even in the room, she's upstairs being measured by Irina for new dresses, when a fight breaks out in Vanya's office. She tries to run to him but Irina stops her, and across the hall she hears Gil spring to life. Some time later there's the sound of slow footsteps, and the two women venture into the hall to find Gil and Vanya making their way to their respective rooms, Gil sporting a black eye, Vanya holding his side. The Russian smiles. "We get to keep the baby!" he announces, as if either of them had cared what the officials thought. She's six months pregnant, they were a bit late in trying to stop this baby from coming into the world.<p>

* * *

><p>Erzsi has always preferred sleeping on the left side of the bed, which makes it easier for her to sleep on her left side. Vanya's chest is pushed into her back as his hand runs up and down her stomach, huge now after seven months.<p>

She knows the left side is better. She was expecting her breasts to change, being the worst part in her opinion; her breasts were already big enough, but Vanya really liked the change at least. There were a few weeks in the middle where she couldn't go more than a day without wanting her Russian lover, and it had taken a while for Vanya to accept that it was ok to have sex while she was pregnant, really. Erzsi knows what to expect, though it's been a few decades.

But Vanya is still amazed every morning, waking earlier than her to talk to the baby inside her. Sometimes it wakes her, but she never moves, likes to listen to him talk to their child. He asks the baby if he'll be a boy or she'll be a girl, will the baby love ballet too, look like Erzsi or him? He always says he hopes the baby is like Erzsi, inside and out, and there's something bittersweet to that.

"You know," she whispers, and his hand pauses, one of hers coming to rest on it, "it wouldn't be such a bad thing if the baby was like you."

"Yes it would be," he mutters, burying his face in her hair. "I'm a monster."

"You've seen a lot of things, and I'm sure that, in the end, that you're still a sweet person shows how great your goodness is."

Vanya hugs her lightly, kissing her shoulder. Tonight she's won this debate.

* * *

><p>Last time she gave birth in the summer, and it was so uncomfortable being nine months pregnant and hot that she'd wished it was winter instead. Now that she's nine months pregnant and it's winter, she wishes she had the summer back.<p>

Actually she's alternating between being hot and cold, leaning her back against Gil's chest on the window seat. There's a thick blanket covering their bodies, the heat building. When she gets hot she presses her forehead against the window, a huge snowstorm raging outside. It's nothing but dark and white out that window; the house is completely cut off from the rest of the world.

"I'm scared," Erzsi finally whispers, and Gil's hold around her tightens.

"I know," he responds softly. He was there, last time. He was with Roderich, but he was still there, walked with her in the garden, held her hand when it hurt before the real labor set in. Gil was never one for propriety, told her he'd be there when she gave birth, if she wanted. She was so grateful for that she cried.

There's a pause before she says what's been bugging her for months, years now. "Why me Gil? Nations aren't suppose to have children. Why can I?"

The Prussian behind her sighs, kissing her cheek. "I think," he starts, and there's no teasing in his voice, none of that superiority there normally is when he speaks. He's gotten better about leaving her alone on the "Ivan Braginski" topic, not making her feel any more guilty than she already does. It still eats at her, though she tries to ignore those voices. But she's not sure if she loves Vanya, and that makes it all the worst. "I think," Gil starts again, this time continuing, "that you're special Erzsi. First, duh, vagina!" and she laughs at that. "Second, seriously though, second you have a good heart. You can see the good in anyone, Erzsi, from me to Lutz to Roderich to even Ivan. You can always find it, bring it out, and that makes you special. You care about other nations beyond yourself."

"I just feel so disconnected from my people," she admits, "I have for so long."

"Truth is, I have too. I think we all have, though no one will say it. They don't need us anymore, Erzsi, this is a new world and they don't need us the same way. The countries are still here so we can't die, but we're no longer something so different from humans. You've just got the greatest amount of humanity in you."

"Yeah," Erzsi chuckles, rubbing her belly, "I've got a whole lot of humanity in-"

Gil's reaction is quick, his body tensing to hold her hands while the contraction passes. This is normal, she tries to tell herself. This is suppose to happen, I'm fine. Not in this storm, she wills, and her confidence slips. "Not now."

A long time passes. Irina's noticed by now, and sits beside them. Vanya is still in his office. Other nations putter about; Irina sends most of them away.

But Erzsi knows, she can feel it in her body. Her mind is flooded with memories from what the midwives said to her, and she goes through them all until she can't fight the truth anymore. The wind howls outside when she finally puts her head back on Gil's shoulder. "Is it time?" he asks, and she doesn't miss the fear in his voice. All she can do is nod. "Get Vanya," and Irina is gone.

Vanya's clothes are all askew, and there are ink stains on his hands, as he flies to her side. Irina calls up to the other men and soon Eduard and Toris and even Feliks are sent out into the storm to fetch the midwife. They were suppose to have two more weeks, Erzsi hears little Ravins whisper to Irina. He's quickly taken away with the older woman to fetch things.

They were suppose to have two more weeks, at least. Erzsi had been afraid this would happen, afraid the infamous Russian winter would best her when the time came. But the midwife had been certain that she would be fine; she'd come in another week's time to stay with Erzsi and everything would be fine. Lies.

* * *

><p>Several hours have passed. Erzsi, with the help of Gil and Irina, had been moved to sit before the fireplace, leaning against one of the brick sides. Irina's got pillows everywhere for her comfort, though she left in such a hurry she forgot a blanket, which Gil fetched. He sits with her, holding her hand tight. Vanya's disappeared, though they can hear him yelling with Nataliya. Ravins waits at the door, looking hopefully for one of the others to come back.<p>

No hospital, Erzsi had told Vanya months ago. It scared her too much, she didn't want to go. Irina had come back, asked Erzsi if she was sure; she was. Irina had hugged her at that. "Vanya was worried," she'd confessed, "that you'd want to go to the hospital. I think the officials are waiting for you to. He's afraid they'd try something, to get rid of you and the baby. He can only protect you here."

It's no use, Erzsi knows it long before Edouard comes back, covered in snow. He's shivering so much, apologizes as he sits before the fireplace, but he couldn't find the midwife. Toris went on to the next town, because someone had told him that she was delivering a child there. Feliks said he wasn't coming back without the midwife, and that makes Erzsi smile. Irina runs off to tell Vanya.

She's pretty sure he locked his baby sister in the basement when he comes back into the room, because Vanya tells Ravins to bring food down there. Edouard is sent off too. "Erzsi," Vanya whispers, kneeling before her, and he looks defeated.

Irina sits on her other side, speaking too quickly in Russian for Erzsi to even bother trying to follow. Vanya doesn't seem too keen on what she's saying, and neither does Gil, judging by his random interruptions into the conversation.

"Erzsi," Vanya says again, and this time she looks up. He speaks slowly in Russian, and she's grateful, too tired to think. "You have to trust me."

"The midwife isn't coming," she states, and surprises even herself with the strength behind the sentence. Their silence is their agreement.

Irina leans in close, squeezing her hand. "We used to have really bad winters, like this. The midwives taught us how to deliver babies, we've done it before." That's when it clicks what they're saying, what they were arguing about. Erzsi starts to shake her head and Gil kisses her hand, but she can't. Not like this.

The Ukrainian takes one last look at her brother before hurrying off to get something, leaving Vanya to apologize. "I'm so sorry Erzsi, but there's no other way. I couldn't even get you to the hospital if I wanted to, with this storm."

She can't speak so she squeezes Gil's hand, and he answers for her. "Whatever you have to do, do it."

* * *

><p>It's easier this time. She's done this before. She's got Gil by her side. And somehow knowing Vanya is the one doing the delivery makes her feel better.<p>

He really does know what he's doing, telling her when to stop and when to push. Last time it had taken hours, leaving her craving human contact, while the attendants watched; she had considered herself lucky they hadn't tried to throw some officials in to watch her give birth. Now she has Gil holding her hand, Irina wiping her forehead. Vanya's sweating, finally removing his coat and scarf, rolling back the sleeves of his sweater. It burns until she feels the head come out, when she chances to look up. Vanya is so concentrated on the task at hand, and Gil even chances to look down and see what's happening. "Holy…" he starts in German, making Irina snicker as he pales, looking away. "I'm done," Gil mutters.

But Vanya never waivers and her heart is beating so fast in her chest at the sight of him. Erzsi tries to catch her breath, and when he looks up, opening his mouth to speak, she shakes her head. "Szeretlek," is all she manages, and for a moment he stares at her, his mouth open. In her heart she now knows she loves him, has to tell him. He smiles at her stupidly before sobering up, and it's so much easier after that.

When she hears the screaming of her baby Erzsi starts crying, Irina and Vanya rubbing and wrapping the baby up. Gil hugs her, and she can tell he's crying too. Vanya puts the baby on her chest, exchanging places with Irina, kissing the mother of his child. "A girl," he sighs. "We have a girl." It's the first time Erzsi's ever seen him cry, as he holds her and the baby close to his large chest.

* * *

><p>There was never a doubt in her mind as to what they would name a girl. At some point in her labor that she just can't remember, Erzsi apparently told Vanya she wanted the baby baptized, and he'd promised to fine a Roman Catholic priest for her. Days later he reminds her of the promise, and it occurs to her the difficulty of it. Even if the Soviet Union wasn't an officially atheist country, Russians were mostly Eastern Orthodox. But he comes through and their daughter is baptized several days after the 25th of December, when she was born.<p>

Anastasiya Ivanovna Braginski. She's so small as she sleeps on Vanya's chest, one of his large hands rubbing her tiny back. Erzsi is tucked under his other arm, the baby's small hand wrapped around one of her fingers. They're still mostly snowed in, the whole town digging it's way out. It'll take weeks for officials from Moscow to get to them, and Vanya promised they wouldn't be allowed anywhere near their daughter.

"I love you," he whispers, kissing her forehead. Erzsi doesn't respond, just snuggles closer, watching the little girl rise and fall with her father's breathing.


	10. 1969

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: 1969, what a crazy year! Trying to balance adorable child, adorable lovers, and serious issues being serious. Adorable child is kind of winning. Anastasia is probably the plot point I was most worried about, but I think you'll see how she moves us nicely through the last twenty years we have.

* * *

><p>"As long as the sun shines one does not ask for the moon" Russian Proverb<p>

**1969**

Erzsi was the one who started calling her Anya. It made Vanya laugh, and she knew it wasn't the proper Russian diminutive, but it sounded so pretty at the time, and so it just sort of stuck. Vanya even had the sign on their daughter's door carefully painted to read "Аня".

* * *

><p>They're watching the ballet class from the back, all the little girls dressed in matching outfits, hair slicked back. Anya waves from across the room before showing her footwork to the instructor, who nods and moves on. Vanya takes great pride in his daughter being the best ballerina in the class. It helps that she has two lessons a week instead of one, an extra one while Erzsi has her own private lesson. Anya always looks forward to it, and though she won't say why ("It's a secret Mama! Shh!"), she suspects Vanya dances with Anya during them.<p>

After ballet they walk to the car, enjoying the warm spring day. Anya's got a hold on each of their hands, and they lift her to swing between them as they walk. Her laugh is infectious, and the town people all smile as they pass. She looks like Vanya, blonde hair and pale skin, his jaw. But her eyes are Erzsi's, and so is her nose and the face she makes when she concentrates.

At home she runs off to find Uncle Gil and show him what she learned today, but before they've finished walking through the door Edouard hands Vanya something. Turning it over in his hands, the Russian silently makes his way back to his office, Erzsi following, closing the door behind her. "What is it?"

He tosses his coat over the chair; he only removes it for her. "It's about Yao," and though Erzsi has never met the Chinese nation personally, she knows he was close to Vanya. Wang Yao had very precise handwriting when he wrote Vanya's name on an envelope: Иван Брагинский, each letter perfectly upright. The letters used to come every week, but recently they've stopped; Erzsi doesn't ask why.

While Vanya pours himself vodka, reading through the pages in the letter, Erzsi removes his gun from its holster, locking it in his desk. She sits on the side of the chair, massaging his shoulders while he flips through the papers again. Finally he sighs, leaning back and pulling her to his lap.

"Well, it seems I've lost my only true friend." They don't talk about Yao again.

* * *

><p>They're at the dining room table, Erzsi helping Anya perfect each Cyrillic letter. Irina is flying about behind them, setting up for dinner. Nataliya is much slower in her moves, eyeing the Hungarian and half-Hungarian. Since Anya's birth Nataliya has taken to staring at Erzsi when she thinks she isn't looking, and ignoring Erzsi and Anya's existence. But both her and Vanya agreed that this was probably the best they could hope for. Anya had never taken to Nataliya anyway.<p>

"Mama?" Anya looks up at her with big green eyes.

"Yes honey?" Anya doesn't go to school with the other girls in town, only sees them during ballet. Vanya has tutors come in instead, and one of the rooms in the house has been turned into a schoolroom just for her. When Anya's especially good, she gets a special lesson from her mother in German, French, and (always Anya's favorite) Hungarian.

"Why do so many people live here with you and Papa?"

Fringe falls into her daughter's eyes, and Erzsi gently pushes it away. She's wearing a ring Vanya gave her on Anya's first birthday as a token of love; it has a large emerald set in platinum. In the light it glistens. "It's complicated Anya."

"I promise I'll try to understand!" her daughter pleads. "Please, Mama! The tutors won't tell me, they said Papa said no." As she finishes speaking Vanya walks in, perking at the sound of his name.

"What did I say no to?" He leans down, kissing Anya's forehead. Anya smiles.

Erzsi is the one to respond. She's sitting in his chair at the head of the table, so Vanya sits in her normal chair, just on the other side of the girl. "Anya wants to know why so many people live here with us." Anya is still smiling up at her father, but Vanya sees the disdain in Erzsi's face. She had told him he'd have to explain one day, have to tell their daughter that he owned her mother. Erzsi loves Vanya, but she never forgets she had no choice in staying or leaving.

"Well," the Russian starts awkwardly, clearing his throat, and it only makes Anya more eager. "Oh, are you practicing?" and like that Anya forgets all about her question, showing her father her letters. Over her heard Vanya gives Erzsi a sad look, and she knows it's meant apologetically. Anya's just not ready to understand, not ready for the truth. For today, that's fine.

* * *

><p>"Hold!" Anya is yelling, dancing about the small room before the television set. They rarely use this room, Vanya's always preferred reading. But for just today Vanya's arranged for them to get a special broadcast, letting Anya stay up late to see it. Her parents are on the couch, Erzsi feeding Vanya sweets in between stealing the candies for her own. "Hold! Hold!"<p>

"Anastasiya," Vanya warns, and the little girl giggles, throwing herself on her stomach before the television.

All last week her lesson with her mother had been words about space. There was "la lune" in French, "der Mond" in German, and of course the Hungarian word Anya had been yelling, "hold". To say the little girl was excited for the moon landing was an understatement.

Vanya translates the English to Russian as they watch the American astronaut take the first step on the moon, Anya cheering loudly in excitement. "Papa, Papa! When is the Soviet Union going to put someone on the moon?"

"Близо́к локото́к, да не уку́сишь," he chuckles, and that seems to satisfy her. It only seems easy. Both nations know how much work something like this took.

Erzsi leans against his chest, one arm holding her close. She thought he had taken it well, news that Alfred's country had beaten him to it. But what worried her was their daughter. She was human, there was no two-ways about it. In the dark of night Erzsi had hoped that maybe there would be a new country, and she had even caught Vanya checking on the political stability in some parts of the expansive Soviet Union, but there was no such luck. She was just a little girl.

They hadn't told her they were countries. Most of the townsfolk didn't know, and the tutors who did know were given very careful and very threatening instructions by Vanya on what they could and couldn't reveal. Because Anya didn't know any other life, she thought nothing of so many people from so many countries living together. Never realized that they didn't age.

But it wasn't the life Erzsi wanted for her daughter. She wanted Anya to be free, to see the world, like they had, before the Warsaw Pact. She wanted Anya to meet other people, to meet real Hungarians. Anya would like Budapest, she knew she would, but Erzsi wanted her to know the free Budapest her mother had grown up in, a proud capital of a free Hungary.

Vanya does his best, but it just isn't what she wants for Anya.

* * *

><p>In the little ballet studio Vanya had had put together for Erzsi, she practices with her daughter. Anya is really good, there's no way around that fact. She's been dancing for so long, but possess a natural grace. Every move the little girl makes is practiced, perfect, making Erzsi so proud to know that this is her girl.<p>

"Mama, are you ok?" Anya caught her mother's reflection in the mirror, running over to check on her mother. The little girl wraps her thin arms around Erzsi's legs, burying her face in her stomach. Erzsi strokes the carefully pulled back hair. She doesn't like letting on to how much she worries.

"Mama is ok. I was just thinking."

"About what?" There they are again, those eyes shining up, that happy smile.

"How much I love you," she whispers, leaning down to hug the girl at Anya's height. That little body pulls her to it, small arms wrapped tightly around Erzsi's neck. Anya buries her face in her mother's hair and the Hungarian nation can feel the wide smile, can feel her daughter's love like electricity coursing through their bodies, and so she hugs right back to show how much she cares for her baby.

"Mama?" Anya asks, pulling back. "Why am I an only child?"

In the mirror Erzsi doesn't miss Vanya's body in the doorway. "You're a gift honey. People like Mama and Papa aren't suppose to have any children, but we have you, our little blessing. But we only got one blessing, and I'm so glad it was you." They both know Anya wants a sibling, but they have no choice in this matter. Still, the little girl nods, then notices her father, running to him.

Vanya throws her in the air, kissing everywhere on her face. "Papa, yucky!" Anya cries out, and they all laugh at that.

* * *

><p>It still makes Erzsi laugh, how uncreative Vanya is in bed. Gil isn't kinky, but he is always up for trying something new. Roderich, well, Roderich liked the missionary position just fine, with few deviations. There were the two days Erzsi decided fuck the world, I'll fuck Francis, and leave it to the French nation to teach her more in those forty-eight hours than years of marriage. And though it was only once, because Lutz was nervous about his first time, she's sure he must be braver in bed now, letting his wild side out sometimes.<p>

But Vanya is terribly uncreative, as she finishes untying him, coming down from her last sexual high. Erzsi tends to be the one who ends up suggesting sex on the desk, sex on the table, how about some bondage? She likes tying him up, feeling like for a few brief minutes, she owns him. That makes sex even better.

"You," he murmurs, suddenly grabbing her with newly freed arms and pulling Erzsi to his chest, "are always full of surprises." Vanya kisses her lips, deeply, and though they've just finished having sex there's a need there that just never goes away, their teeth clashing, tongues fighting. Russian hands squeeze the Hungarian ass, making her cry out in delight.

"And you have an early train tomorrow." She kisses him once more before standing to hide the rope; no reason to leave it out where Anya might find it.

There's a blackout on something in the news, they both know that, but Vanya has only heard whispers of what it is. His officials called him back to Moscow for a month, the longest request since the last great war, and he hopes to get some news on what's happened in his time spent there.

"Come with me," Vanya purrs from the bed, and Erzsi turns to admire the sight. The sheets barely cover his manhood, from where they're tossed over his hips, one leg bent up. She loves his legs, they're wicked strong. They can have sex standing, nothing to lean against, and those legs keep him going like nothing else. The skin is pale and creamy, probably never exposed to direct sunlight, and soft as can be. He's watching her watch him, her eyes taking in that broad chest. He's got more definition in his muscles now, from chasing around Anya, from lifting her and carrying her, in his chest and arms. But the lines are still soft to the touch as Erzsi makes her way to him, running one hand up from his navel to shoulder, her fingers grazing a nipple. "Come with me to Moscow," he repeats.

They've had this discussion every day since he got the summon. "I can't," she whispers, shaking her head, and one of his strong hands strokes her neck, her shoulder. "I have to stay with Anya." Erzsi would go, despite all her anxiety about the capital city. She would go, but they both know it's too dangerous of Anya. Their Russian protector only has control here in his house. They won't risk her.

"I will miss you," Vanya whispers, and there's something raw there as Erzsi lays on his chest, their exposed flesh warming each other. He kisses her more slowly this time, his hands tracing imaginary lines on the small of her back.

"Hurry home." Her hands cup his face, and Vanya smiles, kissing the fingers. "This bed is too big without you in it, and I hate being cold." It's code for I love you.

* * *

><p>They're sitting in the schoolroom doing homework when there's a shuffling at the front door. "Finish first," Erzsi tells her daughter, going to see what's happened, and Anya patiently stays, adding and subtracting numbers. Making her way to the front entryway, Erzsi sees her lover handing his suitcase to Toris, speaking quickly to his sisters. When his eyes move up, he sees her.<p>

Within seconds she's run into his arms, and he lifts her into the air so that they're faces are level as she kisses Vanya, pulling his head to hers. The other nations leave before they break apart for air, so used to these two by this point.

"I missed you," Erzsi says in a voice that's too high, her throat tight from longing and the tears she wouldn't shed on lonely nights. He kisses her again.

"I missed you so much," Vanya tells her as he lets her down, hugging her close. "I thought of you every minute we were apart. I'm glad I'm home, with you."

They make their way to the schoolroom, where Anya greets her father with great enthusiasm, but is told to finish her work if she wants her gifts at dinner. Never able to disobey her father, she happily finishes with her math before moving on to geography. As they leave, Vanya's strong hands pulling one of Erzsi's small ones along, they make their way quickly to their bedroom, barely getting in the door before all clothes are torn from their bodies. They don't have the patience to make the small trip to the bed, so Vanya takes her against the wall, Erzsi's fingers pulling and digging at his skin that's always so warm.

His lips are everywhere, her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, like he's some sort of starving man. Vanya is always desperate for her, like he could never get enough of his little Hungarian. Erzsi buries her fingers in his hair, pulling painfully at it as she comes, screaming his name. She needs him too now, has forgotten how to live without him. As Vanya finishes, filling her, their foreheads pushed together, Erzsi can't remember what it was like before this. Before Anya and this bedroom and the love they share. So many years have passed.

Under the sheets Vanya whispers everything to her, about the assassination attempt on the leader of the Soviet Union, about the blackout to hide the news. He tells her all the things he never knew had happened over the last ten years, all the things he learned have happened in her country. Erzsi cries, and Vanya holds her close, kissing her and apologizing for saying such things. But he had to know her country was alright, her people were alright, that he wouldn't lose her.

Her fingers find his lips, and it's time to stop thinking. Time to imagine warm days in a field of sunflowers, Anya laughing in the background somewhere.


	11. 1979

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: Took a couple day's break and now I have just one chapter left to write, and I can publish everything.

NaNoWriMo is coming up (for those in the future, this is currently October) which means I'll have a month of doing solely original writing, but at the moment this story is is over 30,000 words so maybe I'll be successful this year? Maybe if you guys all cheer me on I will be. I'm trying to stockpile fics to post during November, to keep you coming.

And now, without further ado, sunflowers.

* * *

><p>"Eternal peace lasts only until the next war." Russian Proverb<p>

**1979**

She still hates him. Erzsi sits in the middle of the large bed, the comforter wrapped haphazardly around her, fighting off the cold that is now a part of her bones. She still hates him, Vanya; there's a part of her that can't forgive him for what his people have done, what he has done. He tells her he'd let her go, if he could, but sometimes she doubts that. Vanya has to possess, to be the one everyone else depends on. Nataliya still follows him about, and now Erzsi even pities that nation who for so long was the Russian nation's prized possession.

After Nataliya it was Erzsi, and she can still see that glint in his eyes of "mine, all mine". He is the master, and for all his love and kindness, the Hungarian is, at the end of the day, his favorite toy. Children love teddy bears, but they rarely allow their beloved bears to be loved by others.

Now it's Anastasia. Vanya promised that for the girl's 16th birthday she could have whatever she wants. Tickets, came her answer quickly, tickets to a ballet in Leningrad, and though Anya wanted her mother to come too, Erzsi could not take this from their daughter.

Their daughter.

It's something small, she knows it isn't meant to insult her, but Vanya in passing tends to refer to Anya as his daughter. Someone he possess alone. His.

Erzsi loves Anya, and Erzsi loves Vanya, but she does not know how to keep her hatred from bubbling up again, when every day of this year has been a reminder that thirty years have passed. Thirty years since she first came to place, first came to this prison cell. Thirty years she's had only Gil from the past. Thirty years without Lutz, without helping him grow as she always has. Thirty years with Roderich, and that's the one that gets her. She loved Roderich, she did, but she also hated him. Because she was his, just like now she is Vanya's.

The truth is, thirty years have been spent in this prison, but she lost her freedom so much earlier. She hates Vanya, because he made her see that truth.

* * *

><p>The ballet is on the 25th of December, Anya's 16th birthday. Anya has never left this little town that even now, Erzsi does not know the name of. So on the 24th she helps her daughter finish packing, walking behind Gil who brings his niece's bag downstairs. Anya talks quickly, excitedly. In the antechamber Edouard and Toris whisper, the latter standing as Erzsi glances over.<p>

"Something's happening," is all he says. Anya's grip on her mother tightens; deep down Erzsi can't imagine the confusion Anya must go through, never understanding why the people in this house are all different, never aging. They still haven't told her, agreed they would when the new year came, that sixteen must surely be old enough for a human to understand.

"Mama," the girl whispers, and Erzsi knows sixteen is still young.

* * *

><p>All the lights in Vanya's office are on; the two women can see nothing but papers covering every flat surface. Anya is too frightened to leave her mother; it's been building with each messenger from Moscow, each whisper to Erzsi that something's come up, each day Vanya locks himself in his office. So Erzsi wraps her arms around the young girl, pulling her close as Vanya finally notices them.<p>

"What happened?" Erzsi asks, a finality in her voice that he knows means she wants the answer, and she wanted it minutes ago.

Vanya slumps in the chair, and there are bags under his eyes like she hasn't seen in years. Anya squeezes her mother closer, taking in her father, and he gestures as if to say, she should leave. There is defeat in his move.

"She's old enough Ivan, it's time she learned the truth. What happened?"

The Russian looks at Erzsi, looks into those emeralds that are as defiant as ever, before looking to his daughter. Her green eyes might be the same color, but they lack the confidence, the rebellious nature her mother has. Vanya told her months ago he's sorry she is so fragile, sorry the world will not let her remain like that. "Next year," he whispers in the room, "next year we will go the ballet." He sounds so broken, but the girl nods at her father's words.

"What happened?" This time Anya is the one to ask, and there is a strength there that lacks her mother's hardness, but possess the soft, almost childlike strength of her father. The kind that scares the others more than it should.

"War," he mutters. "We invaded Afghanistan. This means war."

* * *

><p>It's bad, and all the news that comes to Vanya seems to indicate that this war will not end quickly. When the new year comes Erzsi makes sure her lover keeps his promise, and they sit Anya down, explain the whole truth to her. Most of the time the young human watches her hands, fiddling in her lap, nodding at what her parents say. When Vanya has finished, there is a pause before Anya looks up, right at her mother. "So are you a prisoner? Of Papa's?"<p>

Erzsi watches her daughter's eyes, can see herself reflected back. She doesn't miss Vanya drop his head, slouching back in the chair. He'd have to answer for his sins, they both knew that this question would come sooner or later. He's pleaded with Erzsi to explain, and she had said she would because she didn't want her daughter to repeat her mother's mistakes, didn't want her daughter to resent Vanya the way Erzsi had come to resent Roderich.

But in that moment all Erzsi can do is nod and say, "Yes."

Later she explains, holds her daughter while Anya sheds the tears Erzsi has so many times in the last thirty years. Anya understands, as best as a teenager in this situation can, but Erzsi still doesn't feel right. Now the fear that has been growing in her daughter is a fear with names and dates, conflicts and history that could kill her parents. This war is miles away, but in her daughter's eyes lays the Afghan battlefield. Erzsi has no choice for herself, but she will not let her daughter live like this. It is time to fix this sin she has allowed to transpire.

* * *

><p>The train station is somewhere in Hungary, near the border with Austria. When they arrive on the platform it's empty; Vanya had arranged it so it would be. So they could say their goodbyes. In private.<p>

Erzsi feels foreign in her own country; the signs and land all seem familiar, but it takes her longer to understand the words and writing than it used to. She's slipping, she's becoming Russian and cannot stop. Vanya had done most of the talking for the two women, in a commanding Russian with stamps in his passport that indicated he is important. They had no problem getting here.

From within the small station a body moves at the window, slowly making his way outside. She could almost cry at the sight, feels guilty and happy all at once. She never even liked Francis that much, but he was kind to her after the divorce, held her when she cried, when she came to him one weekend, lonely and in need of love. During the war she used to have letters snuck to him, telling him as much as she could. It wasn't that she didn't love her German men, but rather that she had also come to care for the French nation. To trust him, in a way.

He's filled out since the last time she saw him, thirty years prior. His body has healed from the physical wounds, always the lesser of the injuries. But Francis's hair still glints in the little sun that escapes sad clouds looming overhead, as if even nature knows what is about to happen.

Under his arm there's a baguette. "Really? That's subtle," Vanya states in sarcastic French. Francis shrugs.

"This station, they don't care so much. Consider themselves less a part of you and more a part of us." Francis is looking Vanya in the eyes, speaks calmly as if this wasn't an insult to the Soviet Union but rather an observation on the season.

"I know," Vanya concedes, shaking hands with Francis.

That's when those deep blue eyes turn to Erzsi, smiling in a bittersweet manner. "Dearest," he sighs before spreading his arms, and she hugs him close, smelling his cologne, feeling his soft fabric on her cheek. He holds her tight, kissing her hair. "I have missed you so much Elizabeta," he whispers.

"And I, you," she finally says, pulling back to look him in the face. His stubble tickles her hand that runs across his cheek. "You and Ivan have-"

Francis smiles, nodding, as Vanya stands behind him. "Yes, I got your letter and his both, have committed them to memory. All for the benefit of the beautiful Anastasia."

It's then that Francis turns to Anya, who is standing awkwardly off to the side. Her shoulders are raised, her arms hugging her body. She was quiet the whole way here, both women were; Vanya read to them from Anya's favorite book just to fill the silence. What words are there for what is about to pass? Erzsi knows it's for the better, but that doesn't stop her eyes from beginning to tear up.

Francis takes the girl's hand, kisses it, bowing for her. "I bought us a baguette," he says, gesturing to the bread, "for the ride. I find many people feel better with warm baguette in their stomach." He smiles, and Erzsi knows he is doing his best to comfort her, turning on all the charms.

But Anya, that's when she breaks down, turning to her mother. She runs to her, and Erzsi holds her tightly, her tears coming as well. Two strong arms wrap around them, and Vanya kisses each of their heads. He had cried, the night before they left. He never would have admitted to it, but Erzsi had heard him, each sob shaking her to the core. For all his faults, Vanya's greatest is he loves too deeply.

"Mama," the girl whispers, and that's when Erzsi knows she has to let go, they cannot delay this any longer. "Mama, please, I don't want to," Anya starts.

A finger to her lips shushes the girl. "Anya," Erzsi starts, and Vanya sighs to keep himself from breaking as well. "The world is so big and wonderful. We cannot keep you in a cage, cannot keep you from seeing all these things. I love you and your father loves you and that is why we need to let you go. Remember?"

"Jóból is megárt a sok," the girl repeats. You can have too much of a good thing. A Hungarian proverb from a forgotten lesson years ago, in a little schoolroom in a big house, in a little town in a very big country.

Her mother smiles weakly. "I want you to see the world Anya. Francis is a good man, he will love you like Uncle Gil does. You can finally meet so many new people, see all those places from your books. You can be free."

Anya shakes her head. "Come with me," she pleads quietly. Vanya tenses.

"It doesn't work like that honey," Erzsi sighs. "Just know that you are the greatest thing I have ever had, but I know that it is better to be free."

She's not sure if her words are helping now, but Erzsi knows that Anya will have them for years, will come to understand what is happening. She wrote Anya a letter, that Francis is to give her on her 17th birthday. And one for her 18th. And 19th. All the way up to thirty because Erzsi doesn't know when she will next be able to see her daughter, but she just couldn't write that letter for thirty-one.

Vanya holds Anya close, whispering in hushed Russian that Erzsi cannot make out beyond "Anastasiya" and "love" and "your mother and I". Finished now, there is only one thing left to do.

From the platform Anya stands beside Francis. Her eyes have deep bags, her breathing is uneven, her face is pink. Erzsi waves out the window Vanya opens for her, waves as the train pulls away. Anya starts to follow, to run, until the platform ends and she cannot run anymore.

"I love you Mama!" Anya screams, and her voice breaks with her tears.

"I love you Anya!" Erzsi manages back before the platform is quickly whisked away, and Francis is left to take Anya back to Paris.

* * *

><p>Everything at home seems dead now. Anya was the brightest light in the house, always cheerful and curious, without a care in the world. Now she is gone.<p>

In the dark of night Vanya holds Erzsi close, her tears wetting his chest, his her hair. With time the sting will fade, and that's the worst part of it. Erzsi never wants this sting to fade, never wants to forget the pain of having to let her second chance go. She told herself she would have Anya longer than she had Ferdi, but she thought it would be so much longer than just fourteen years more. She thought they'd have a lifetime. That maybe Anya would be there forever.

The other nations all speak quietly, tell Erzsi how brave she was, wonder at what wonders Anya must be seeing. She's not allowed near Lutz and Roderich, Francis can't let her, but he's doing this, taking Anya in, without seeking permission from anyone, without discussing it with the other nations.

There are so many rules Vanya and her had laid out for him, but she knows he understands. With time, Anya will too.

* * *

><p>When summer comes they lay in the sunflower patch, and it's not the same, but it's getting better. Life is becoming easier for Erzsi, as a nation. Vanya has more work, but it's of a different kind and though it leaves him stressed, he now appreciates Erzsi more. He strokes her cheek whenever they part ways, kisses her hand when she comes to dinner. They make love slowly at night, and Vanya always holds her the way she loves, even though it's uncomfortable for him.<p>

"Why?" Vanya whispers, and she's not quite sure if there was more to the question that she missed while musing.

"Why what?" She lays her head against his chest, watches his chin move as he looks up at the sun, one hand covering his eyes.

"Why do we live like this? Nations. It cannot end well, for any of us."

"There is a saying," Erzsi says, rising to look him in the eyes. "Ki mint vet, úgy arat. It means as you sow, so shall you reap." He nods at the Russian translation, but does not seem to grasp the deeper meaning. "The way you live is the way you die."

At that he nods with understanding. "We were born of war. All of us."

"And war will consume us," Erzsi agrees.

In the sun she lays down beside him, her fingers splaying under his shirt to feel the chest beneath. One hand strokes her back as they lay in silence.

"I would give everything," Vanya whispers quietly after several minutes, "to see you smile the way you used to. Before the wars, before your marriage. You used to have the most beautiful smile Erzsi, did you know that? On the battlefield, you used to have the most beautiful smile in victory."

Erzsi looks up, and Vanya looks down to meet her gaze. She wants to say something, something deep, something meaningful. Something that only this moment can give her.

But there is no meaning in her life without Anya, and so Erzsi settles with a kiss on the lips.


	12. 1983

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: I think this proverb and the last proverb of the story are my favorite. Also, writing dance scenes are hard, but I've learned so much about ballet that my NaNoWriMo is going to be about a ballerina. Maybe Vanya would appreciate it?

I'm traveling through Europe next week and may not have Internet, so I will try and post the next chapter as well before I go, but you'll have to wait for the last one.

* * *

><p>"Not all who make love make marriages." Russian Proverb<p>

**1983**

Feliks tells her he's leaving while Erzsi reads beside her window. Change is coming in Poland, but no army has been sent by the Kremlin to crush it. All the fights left for the Polish nation to fight are internal, and so Vanya is allowing him home to deal with them. He says he'll come back, but Erzsi makes Feliks promise he'll never return. They'll see each other again someday, but not here.

"I heard what you told him," Vanya whispers in the dark while Erzsi is settling into bed, watching him change. "About not coming back." There's something sad, resigned, to the way he says it. Erzsi doesn't know what to say to that, because she both meant the words and loves Vanya. The Russian climbs into bed, laying on his back, before speaking again.

"If I went back in time, and took back all the things my people have done to yours, would we still come to this point?" His eyes are set on the ceiling and Erzsi can only stare until he turns to her, waiting for her answer. Those violets, the flames and spurts of the fire reflected there, are so empty. Under them normally lies some love, some desperate hope, but in them there is nothing in this moment. "Because I would, if I knew I could still have nights like these, with you. Still have Anya. Still love you and be loved by you."

Erzsi shakes her head. "I don't think it would have come to this any other way." If it had been different, she knows who's bed she'd be sharing now. They both know.

Vanya's eyes flash and there's that need for her, because things aren't different, because she's not in that bed in the Austrian capital. Inside his head she can only imagine a thousand thoughts flying, about her, about her ex-husband, about the past, and he doesn't have to say it. Erzsi knows that if he couldn't have her, he wouldn't change anything. It had to be like this and Vanya is just capable enough of that level of selfishness, that he wouldn't have changed anything.

"Why did you let him go? Feliks?"

She's still sitting, and so he pulls her to his chest. "I'm done fighting," is all he whispers, kissing her hair. Erzsi moves her head to the touch, until he's kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips, and gently she slips atop Vanya, removing the pajamas he's only just put on. His cold skin always set hers on fire, like vodka.

As they make love he whispers in her ear that he loves her, will always protect her, from now until the day he dies, and with each thrust she forgets how little she believes his words. With each thrust she surrenders to the overwhelming love she can only feel for him in moments like these, caught up in the act. He holds her close as she comes, screaming his name, until he follows suit, pressing into her as if their two bodies might become one.

This is their relationship. This is when she can love him.

* * *

><p>The officials want Vanya to visit an атомоград, a nuclear city, somewhere in Ukraine. When Erzsi finds all new clothes in her closet, she knows that means she is to accompany him and Irina on this trip.<p>

For a planned city, completely controlled by the government, it's very nice. Irina moves on to her capital, spending only one night with them in the town. She tries to teach Erzsi how to say the name in Ukrainian, but it's no use and they all laugh at her awful pronunciation. She's a little better with the Russian name, При́пять, Pripyat. Vanya still kisses her nose though, laughing as she says the name again. "Still better than your Hungarian," she murmurs, and the trio laughs once more.

She walks with Vanya as they're guided through the town, being shown all the newest buildings, how wonderful the apartments are, the beautiful hotel. In the bright light of the sun she's content in her khaki pants and shirt, tucked in just like how she always wore her military uniform; the familiarity is comforting. Her body has mostly gone back to how it was before Anya, though her hips still feel wide and her breasts remain a cup size larger, much to Vanya's pleasure. As they walk through the town Erzsi realizes how much like a foreigner she looks, so different from the women here; she stands out amongst the hundreds of townspeople who follow them, waving and hoping for recognition from the clearly important official Vanya must be, who surely could make their lives better.

Vanya is, of course, wearing his coat, though he's at least opened the buttons down the front, allowing his body to breath a little in his pants and jacket. His scarf, she knows, is shoved into one of the coat pockets, along with a piece of paper Irina had scribbled on, starting, "To my little brother". He seems to loom over the others, and Vanya must look even larger and more imposing next to Erzsi, who stands nearly a foot shorter, her body so much thinner than his. He's holding her hand though, keeps bringing it to his lips to kiss as they see the sights. Vanya is enjoying himself.

When their guide mentions the school, Erzsi's face lights up just a little, and Vanya tells the guide to show them. Inside the older students sit at their desks, politely answering Erzsi's questions on what they have learned, do they have enough paper and books, what would they like to have more of? The younger children, though, run to her, surrounding Erzsi in a sea of small bobbing heads all reaching up to claim her hands as theirs. Eventually the teachers gets the young ones to queue up, and Erzsi crouches down, looking each one in the eye as they tell her about themselves, answering her questions seriously, before they receive a hug. Every once in a while she looks up to see Vanya leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in comfort, taking in the sight. His grin is so wide and honest and he blinks without seeming to see that's she's watching him. His eyes are glazed over; he's thinking of days that used to be.

As the children finish, some loiter, listening to the guide speak to Erzsi and Vanya. One of them tugs at Erzsi's pants, getting her attention.

"What is it dear?" Erzsi asks, bending over to hear the little boy. Vanya mimics her as the guide tuts at being ignored, walking away.

"Are you two married?" the boy asks honestly, his face bright. The question surprises her, and wide-eyed she looks to Vanya, who is just as shocked at the innocent question. "My babushka says holding hands and kissing is only for married people." The children all nod their heads.

Erzsi is on the verge of laughing when Vanya takes her hand, kissing it gently. "You should listen to your babushka," he says slowly to the boy, in that kind voice he used to use for Anya. The answer satisfies the children, who run away to join their class once more.

After the tour they're taken to the nearby power plant, which employs most of Pripyat. While Erzsi walks along the river with one of the few officials Vanya trusts, her Russian lover is given a tour of Chernobyl. Finished, they say goodbye to the town, which has crowded into the square surrounding a statue of Lenin. They make their way to the train station in Yanov to return home, Erzsi now ladened with drawings from the young children. Vanya tucks them into his briefcase.

* * *

><p>In the train car Vanya finally asks the question they both feel still lingering in the air. "Why didn't we get married?"<p>

Out the window the scenery races by; Erzsi sighs, shaking her head. "It's not worth it," she whispers, because she knows he's never been married, doesn't know what it's like.

"Humans do it," is the answer she gets, and it's sad and hopeful all at once with that child's innocence Vanya still has.

Erzsi shakes her head. "Humans can marry for forever, because they die. Countries can live forever, and so marriages do nothing but die. It wouldn't last Vanya," and she finally meets his gaze, which is confused, racing, trying to understand every possible meaning her words hold and maybe, she thinks, find some objection. They've never discussed it before. "We'd be lying to ourselves, if we said we'd be together forever." It's the truth; they've only ever lived on borrowed time.

"Are you happy?" he asks, and there's a realness to his voice that she knows means Vanya is worried, genuinely worried, as to her answer.

Rising slowly, Erzsi lets the train carry her, each step moving her until she's straddling Vanya's lap, her hands running down his neck to his chest. "Yes, Vanya," she whispers, brushing their lips together. "I am happy, like this, as we are." His large arms pull her closer, her chest pressing into his. "This is the most we could ever hope for. Believe me, this is the pinnacle of what two countries could achieve. This is it, love."

"I want you to be happy," he murmurs, and their lips brush again before she kisses him, pulling his head to hers, yanking at his hair until he cries out in pain. "I want you to be happy," he repeats, his breathing shallow, pushing her hips down so that she grinds against him, feeling his hard member through his pants. They have hours until they meet with Irina, but it's been days since she's had Vanya for her own, days since they've been together. "I want you," and he stops at that this time, losing himself in their kiss.

* * *

><p>When Irina joins them she whispers with Vanya is hushed Ukrainian, and Erzsi's not sure what they're talking about but knows it's nothing serious by the way Vanya sits. When he's talking about business, he leans forward, his legs locked, his hands hanging between those legs as his arms rest on his thighs. But when it's less-important matters he leans back, his legs spread wide, one finger at his mouth, playing with the corner of his lips.<p>

Erzsi watches them and decides that that's her favorite of Vanya's unconscious habits. He tends to sit with a hand at his face, a finger rubbing up and down the long shaft of his nose, or one pulling at the corner of his mouth as he bites gently on his lower lip. When they sit at home in front of the fire, she's even seen him suck on his pinkie, just the end, and it always catches him by surprise when he realizes he's doing it.

Vanya steps out for a moment and Irina looks intently at Erzsi; so they were talking about her.

"What's it like?" Irina asks in a hushed voice, the kind Vanya uses when he whispers secret memories of the tsar's family. "Being married?"

Oh.

Her mind races to find the words, trying to answer quickly for Irina because she doesn't want to hurt Vanya with what she might say. "The truth?" she asks, and Irina nods, moving to sit beside the Hungarian. "It's just like this, now. It's being loved, if you're lucky, but having no choice in if you stay or go."

On her hand Erzsi still wears the ring Vanya gave her all those years ago, the one with the large emerald because it's the color of their eyes, Erzsi's and Anya's. She wears it because she knows he meant well, giving it to her, but she doesn't want more. Doesn't want to be the wife of Ivan Braginski. She never has.

"He's afraid of you leaving," Irina whispers, but Erzsi knew that already.

"I'll leave one day," she says defiantly, and Irina hugs her, because she knows that staying or leaving has nothing to do with loving Vanya.

* * *

><p>In the mirror she watches her form, arms rising and falling slowly as she practices. Erzsi really does enjoy ballet, enjoys getting each position right, seeing the way it all comes together. They still go to Leningrad to see a ballet, every two or three months, have since Anya left, to try and fill that void, and it makes Vanya so happy to have someone to share this passion with.<p>

Her feet move to second position, her arms to fourth, and then she feels two strong hands take hers, guiding her to the next position, as she extends one leg out behind her. Vanya helps her raise the leg, higher, higher, and though she doesn't have the strength to hold it on her own, it is the highest she's ever managed, one arm reaching out for something always just out of reach. Slowly she lowers her leg, returning to second position, before turning to look at him.

They dance to silent music that only they can hear. Erzsi's moves are fluid, her body small, and she follows Vanya's lead, doing what her body tells her is right. He's only wearing his shirt, no jacket or sweater or that stupid coat. In the mirror she watches his muscles flex as he lifts her, holding her with that great strength he possess. When they finish she locks her arms about him, her head resting on his heart. Maybe it was three years after Anya left, that he finally got himself a ballet tutor. And he really isn't good, his body is too large and bulky and awkward, he doesn't have any natural talent like Erzsi does, but Vanya is so damn determined. He doesn't do the leaps or kicks Erzsi has seen other male ballerinas do, the moves that set the Russian dancers apart from the others. But he dances, and that fact only delights Erzsi.

When they dance it is slow, but when they dance it is meaningful. Their bodies move together; they know just what the other will do. It is something they alone share.

* * *

><p>The next morning the message finally arrives, about Korean Air Lines Flight 007. Everyone on the plane died when it was shot down by the Soviet Union, including a United States Congressman. It's worst than any other incident before, the military operations, the political coups, the tension it brings about. Soviet officials assure Vanya it was an accident, that they never meant to kill Americans, but if war with the US ensues they will fight.<p>

The walls of his office have never been so abused, Vanya punching them over and over. He throws glasses at the far wall, and it shatters loudly before the next tumbler is thrown as well. Erzsi sits in the window, handing him the tumblers, until he's done, dropping to his knees before her. Vanya pulls her to him, kissing her stomach, and she holds him there. His anger calms; he's gotten better over the years in dealing with it. But cracks are showing in the Soviet Union, and no one will listen when he tells them that this was what it felt like last time. The officials think they know better.

Erzsi hopes they meet no better fate than the officials of last time did.


	13. 1986

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: I got a lot of things in this chapter that I've really wanted to write, from including that ridiculous Khrushchev quote, to what in my mind is the major USSR even of the 80's, to Nata and Vanya and the future. I think you can all guess what happens in the next chapter from the year we're in, and I'm really sad about coming to the end tbqh. I think writing this has made me a RuHun shipper, because I love both their characters.

* * *

><p>"Whether you like it or not, history is on our side. We will bury you." Nikita Khrushchev<p>

**1986**

Vanya had been gone for days on business, and it's the first night Erzsi can just lay in his arms, his hands tracing lazy lines along her back. He's gazing into her eyes with such a consuming passion that she feels herself burning up inside, and it's so real, so honest, so completely Ivan that Erzsi can do nothing but sigh contently, melting into him. He leans forward, a little awkward, and steals a kiss, then two, before one hand runs through her hair and he becomes more demanding, rolling her over, his strong legs settling between hers.

They make love, slowly, and he's so gentle that Erzsi begins to think that maybe she's made of glass. As she starts to doze off, Vanya's arms around her waist, holding her to his chest, she can almost hear the sound of glass shattering as the door is thrown open. She's too exhausted from the long day waiting for him, the sleep she lost without him, the energy spent worshipping his body over and over tonight to turn over, to see who it is. Vanya must be just as sleepy because his words are more slurred than she's ever heard them, or maybe that's because it's not Russian.

Slowly she becomes aware of the sobbing body on Vanya's other side, of the small frame her lover's arms are now holding against his naked chest. Irina's words are just as slurred, from the tears and her shaking and being shouted against Vanya's skin. Erzsi is about to ask what's going on when Irina screams again, and though she doesn't understand the words, she recognizes one name in the back of her mind. Then she sees Vanya freeze in terror.

It scares her in a way she never thought possible.

A few minutes pass before he recovers, but once he does Vanya is up, pulling on clothes, dashing back and forth across the room. Erzsi wants to stand, to help him, but Irina is curling up on herself, crying on the edge of the bed, and Vanya half-shouts something to Erzsi with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth. She helps the Ukrainian up on the bed, where she immediately grabs hold of the Hungarian, sobbing into her shoulder.

Vanya is pulling on his coat now, finally switching to Russian. "I have to go," is all he says as he does the buttons.

"Where?" and Erzsi's voice is so desperate that it makes her more anxious.

"Chernobyl."

"What about Cher-" and then she stops. Because Chernobyl was the nuclear power plant they visited, and Irina is hysterical; her mind jumps to the answer.

The Russian nation stands just as tall as he ever did, but in that moment he looks frail, thin almost. He looks like a little boy in man's clothing, his eyes wide but hopeless, as if he's lost his favorite toy or his new puppy has run away. Erzsi has never seen him frightened, truly frightened, to the core.

She removes herself from Irina, who falls upon the bed, clutching a pillow. On all fours Erzsi crawls to the end of the bed, to where Vanya is pulling on his scarf, before pulling him to her, kissing him as deeply as she can because this is it. This is the one they've been waiting for. They thought it'd be a war, a military confrontation with the United States, something that would come with a bang. But no; this is the defining moment, and it's come with a whimper from Irina.

"Be careful," Erzsi whispers even though it's stupid. There is no way to be careful if disaster has struck Chernobyl, and though toxic radiation could not kill Vanya, it could scar him for millennia to come.

There's a pause before he grabs her from behind, roughly, pulling Erzsi's naked body to press against the rough fabric of his coat, the buttons cold as they run from between her breasts to her core. But his tongue sweeps in, quickly, and Erzsi knows this means he's desperate for some hope to carry with him.

When he goes to leave Erzsi whispers that she loves him in Russian, and he looks back with one last look. She's sitting on her heels, naked, Irina still crying behind her, but he looks right in her eyes and smiles. "Szeretlek," is all he says, and then he's gone.

* * *

><p>For days Irina takes the place of Vanya in the large bed, and Erzsi holds her at night because that's when the tremors are worst, when their imaginations run wild. Gil joins them, laying above the sheets because it'd feel wrong if he was beneath them, but he holds Irina from the other side and together, together they try to give as much comfort as they can to the frail Ukraine.<p>

Letters are scarce and often hastily written, Vanya addressing all of them to Nataliya, because apparently Soviet Officials know better than to open what he sends to his baby sister. Ravins sneaks the notes to Erzsi when Nataliya isn't looking, and once she leaves they open them. The notes always say things like, "evacuation, but it's too late," or, "never should have come to this," and then have a hastily signed В for the V in Vanya. It gives little comfort to Irina, who is called back to Ukraine a week after the meltdown, but at least they know he's still there.

In her solitary act of kindness from all the years Erzsi has known her, Nataliya announces she is going with Irina, to Ukraine, because her sister should not have to be alone. They're all so shocked that Erzsi finds herself asking if the Belarusian nation would like help packing, to which Nataliya, possibly as shocked with herself, accepts.

The room is small, much smaller than Erzsi would have thought for the sister Vanya was always so disturbingly attached to. It seems even smaller, she realizes, because there is no window, no natural light save that from the hallway. Nataliya's pale skin seems to radiate against the dark blue walls in the space.

And the room is surprisingly sparse, making Erzsi's private room look lavish. Nataliya has a queen-sized bed pushed into the corner, scarlet sheets covering it. There's a large armoire, the wood dark, just like the large trunk that's covered with photographs and portraits of the three Russian siblings through the years. In the center of the room there is a worn-carpet, but beyond these things there is little else, besides Erzsi and Nataliya and the trunk dragged in to pack.

One photo catches Erzsi's eye, and she picks it up slowly, as if drawn to it. The clothing is similar to what she's seen of the tsar's family, and the room it was taken in is large and expensively decorated. In the background people dance, in fine dresses and costumes, indicating their status in pre-revolutionary Russia. But the two people in the foreground seem to be paying no attention, Vanya's laugh filing his face. He looks so smart in his formal military uniform, metals glistening on his chest, and he looks so much younger as well. He's happy, so happy, the kind of happy Erzsi knows he dreams of returning to with her.

His one arm is slung over Nataliya's shoulder, and she's smiling up at her brother with such love and devotion it makes Erzsi feel momentarily warm inside. There is none of the unhinged, unsettling look in those big blue eyes, in that sweet, round face. Her dress is gorgeous and matches Vanya's uniform in the colors, her hair pulled back in a simple, elegant manner. Nataliya looks so beautiful that if Erzsi had not spent nearly forty years living with the short-fussed Belarus, she would never have known it was the same person.

Eyes are fixed on her back; Erzsi feels them boring holes into her soul. She turns with the photo, and Nataliya's dark eyes flash something akin to surprise before returning to the harsh gaze that she saves for Erzsi. There's a tension that seems to fill the room, almost in a suffocating manner, except that for once Erzsi does not let her lover's sister scare her. Instead she smiles shyly, holding up the picture. "You look beautiful," she states in that Russian she's practiced, the Russian that has no trace of Hungarian behind it. The Russian Vanya uses, and that Nataliya uses too, to be like him.

The other woman lets her mask drop, and Erzsi can see the confusion, the inner turmoil, at being complimented by someone she hates. Or at least, she thinks that what it is, until Nataliya drops her head, whispering something she can barely hear. The Belarusian repeats herself.

"Only Vanya has ever called my beautiful."

The longing in the words, the love on "Vanya", the unpracticed way she says "beautiful," all make Erzsi feel awful inside. "I'm sorry for that."

Minutes stretch by in silence before Nataliya lifts her head up, and there is that defiance again. "You will leave," she states, and Erzsi is confused as to if she is being threatened before Nataliya continues. "Everyone will leave. They always do, in the end. The Soviet Union is collapsing; we all know it. All the countries leave, in the end, abandoning Vanya. But I never do. Because only I love him completely. Only. Me." Her eyes glint something dangerous in the dark.

In her mind, Erzsi can almost see Vanya moving through the room, see where his feet have worn down the carpet, where Nataliya's knees have too. The middle of the bed has a dip too large for her small body, and it must be where Vanya would sleep, must be the first place his body hits when he'd roll off his sister. And Erzsi hates Vanya for treating Nataliya like that, but it doesn't stop her from imagining years alone in this house, just them, what his sister is speaking of. Nataliya has always taken whatever Vanya gives her, from crazed love to abuse, because she is obsessed, because she will never leave. Because she is dedicated to Vanya in the most unhealthy of ways, and that is what Vanya meant when he told Erzsi he's not good at being gentle, at love, at having a family.

"I'm sorry," Erzsi says again, placing the photo back down gently, and the image of a kind and beautiful Nataliya Arlovskaya is replaced with the hurt one before her. "Your brother loves you dearly. Just not how you love him."

"You will leave," is all Nataliya says, "and he will forget that he loved you, like you will forget him. Your daughter will die, but I will still be here for Vanya to have." And with that she packs, throwing clothes haphazardly into the trunk. Erzsi straightens them out, folding each item carefully until they're done, before she leaves silently, Nataliya kneeling before the large trunk covered in photos of Vanya, those hands fingering the edge of the photo Erzsi had looked at.

* * *

><p>At the train station Erzsi and Toris wave goodbye, Irina hugging Erzsi, Nataliya kissing Toris's cheek in a most delicate manner. She has her moments, Erzsi thinks, where she's just a little girl, like Vanya, who grew up too fast.<p>

While they walk back Erzsi chances to put her hands in her pockets, finding a piece of paper she didn't know she had. Each letter is perfect, beautiful, if not for the ink being the color of fresh blood, glistening in the light. Erzsi recognizes the handwriting before Toris leans over, whispering, "Nata wrote that."

The message is short, terse, to the point: "Gorky, once called Nizhny Novgorod. Fifth largest city in Soviet Russia. Closed to foreigners. The first time Vanya saw sunflowers was here."

How ironic that Nataliya would be the one to tell her where they've been all these years. Erzsi is so surprised she hands the note to Toris, who fingers it gently, before whispering, "Is that where we are then?"

Erzsi nods.

"If it's closed, that explains the security," he murmurs.

Erzsi nods.

"I'm glad Nata said something," Toris finishes with too much fondness on that name. "She really is a sweet girl, even if she is scary."

Erzsi nods.

* * *

><p>She can feel herself disappearing, surrendering. She always does this, always loses herself in the one she loves. When they were young she was fit and masculine, because that was what Gil liked. When they were married she was soft and feminine, because that was what Roderich liked. During the wars she was optimistic, always smiling, because that was what Ludwig liked. Even with Francis, she was charming, witty, all those false things she's always hated.<p>

None of those were the real Elizabeta Héderváry, and it's been so long since she was herself that Erzsi can't remember who she is. In the bathroom mirror her hands pull at hips, stomach, breasts, and she can see Vanya's fingers leaving imprints and marks on her body. She can remember what it was like carrying Anya, how her body stretched in the most unimaginable way. But she cannot remember what it was like to stand before the mirror, naked, and see herself.

In love Erzsi is one for surrenders, molding herself to suit her lover. But the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is collapsing, there is no way to ignore it. Even before Vanya comes back, exhausted, collapsing inside the doorway, she feels it. The men carry him upstairs and she washes his body in the bath like a good lover should, helps him stumble to the bed where he falls down, his body too large for Erzsi to really aide him. Vanya is so tired but he still reaches out for her, holds her tight with all the strength he has left. Silent tears pour down his face and Erzsi wants to kiss them away, does kiss them, but she feels it between them.

They both do, both feel the season changing, the tide turning. It's over.

Because soon Erzsi will be free of Vanya's control, and she will not stay here.

His eyes are closed when he murmurs something, "Ki soknak barátja, soknak bolondja," friend of many, fooled by many. He's only ever been disappointed by the relationships he's formed, and maybe Nataliya was right because she is the only one who has stuck with him no matter what. Vanya isn't good at friendship, isn't good at much beyond controlling. The world has moved beyond such tactics, leaving Vanya behind, asking for just one true friend.

Erzsi puts her fingers to his lips, hushing his words, because he needs to rest. He kisses those fingers and the tears come faster, so she keeps kissing him.

"I will miss you," he whispers, his voice harsh, and Erzsi starts to cry to. Wants to hit him, pound against that large chest because he's weak and can't stop her, defenseless before her. Her captor for so many years, he's abused her and used her and loved her and been a wonderful father, all at once.

"It's too early for goodbyes," she cries, burying her fast in his neck. "Please, Vanya, don't. Not yet." She's not ready for it, not ready for freedom yet. She's forgotten what it's like to be herself, it scares her to think of it. For so long she has been Hungary, controlled by the Soviet Union; for so long Elizabeta, the lover of Ivan Braginski. "I love you," she moans, "I hate you but I love you." He laughs.

"Я люблю тебя, даже если вы меня ненавидите," I love you, even if you hate me. She remembers the words, could never forget them. Never forget her Vanya.


	14. 1989

**But Let It Go, And You Learn**

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." Maxim Gorky

"People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates." Thomas S. Szasz

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>: I can tease you no longer, so here you go. The final chapter. :(

I've thought about this chapter for so long but never thought it'd be so hard to write. When you're done, if you'd like more of Erzsi and Vanya, or more of Anya, let me know in the reviews; I already wrote the moment with the photo of Vanya and Nata so look for that. Finishing « Tizenöt » left me satisfied, but finishing this left me wanting more.

I think of all the chapters this one's proverb is my favorite I've found, and speaks perfectly of Vanya. It all comes together in this one (in ways I never intended): the opening quotes, the places, the people; so I hope you can forgive my one narration shift at the end. I thought it finished the story off most elegantly that way.

* * *

><p>"When you meet a man, you judge him by his clothes; when you leave, you judge him by his heart." Russian Proverb<p>

**1989**

When she steps off the train Erzsi sighs deeply. Freedom, forty years later.

Gil is already holding Lutz tightly, and Lutz returns the hug; their German mingles together in the most familiar of ways. She's barely taken in who else is there when a figure runs to her, light hair that is long and moves and overwhelms her as a lithe body throws itself upon Erzsi. "Mama!" it screams, over and over.

There's not enough strength in her arms to hold Anya tight enough, the tears coming too quickly. She holds Anya and Anya holds her and they refuse to let go, both moaning the other's name because it's been years, ten years, since she has held the little girl she bore, that she loved and raised and let go and missed.

When she can no longer take it, has to see that face, they break apart, leaning back to see each other. Anya hiccups, face red, tears still coming, and they both laugh at it because Erzsi must look just as awful. Anya has her father's coloring, his jaw, his soft voice, and Erzsi cannot help but reach out and stroke her cheek. Anya's nose, her eyes, that fire behind them that could burn a man, those are just the same as they ever were, the same features her mother has.

"You are," Erzsi starts, each word painful from the lack of air in her lungs, "so much more beautiful than I ever could have imagined." Her chest hurts, her heart beating fast and hard. One hand reaches out and Erzsi closes her eyes, Anya's touch just as soothing as the one she left behind in a sunflower field somewhere in Gorky. She tries not to think of him, because it hurts too much.

"I love you Mama," Anya cries. "I love you, I love you." She holds her baby close to her chest once more. This time when they break apart, Gil interrupts.

"Remember me?" he asks mischievously, as if his face isn't just as red and wet as theirs. Anya screams in joy, throwing her arms around his neck, and Erzsi laughs. She laughs and smiles and it's been so long since there's been happiness like this, simple and pure and without any guilt or longing.

That's when she catches Lutz's gaze. He smiles weakly as she moves to him, taking him in. He's still tall and wide and strong and beautiful to her. "My baby," Erzsi whispers, because he will always be her first child. At that his smile grows and they embrace for the first time in too long. His body shudders beneath her arms, his face buried in her neck, his back slouched to come down to her height. There will be time to catch up, time to speak the things they were too afraid to say over the phone. To tell the stories. To be a family again, her and Gil with the no-longer-little Lutz they raised. Now with Anya added.

Francis is smiling behind Lutz; though there are no tears on his face, there is color there that betrays his emotion. He too Erzsi embraces, kissing each of his cheeks. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you for everything you've done for Anya. She is perfect."

"Like her mother," he quips, kissing Erzsi's hands. Anya giggles.

Gil and Francis embrace, introducing Anya and Lutz. The one giggles, reaching out a petit hand. The other nods in shock, kissing that hand. But Erzsi can sense one last body present, standing in the shadow, farther along. She moves slowly, knowing just who it must be.

Years have passed, and still her heart beats quickly at his shadow.

She's done so many things she never thought possible, and still she cannot help but suddenly remember a thousand happy moments, flooding her mind, moments made with Roderich Edelstein.

Yet when she sees him, sees his face, her heart does not swell with love like it used to. He looks old, wears a face of disapproval, looking down on her, and it's been so long Erzsi can't tell if he means it or if this is simply Roderich being Roderich. She's dwelled on the bad for so long, learned to love another, accepted what had been done to her and what hadn't been given to her. She's made peace, without Roderich. They never had a chance to find that reconciliation together.

Roderich's eyes are blank, staring back at her from behind fragile glasses.

"Hello," she whispers in German, and she knows her accent is a little too German from Gil, too little Austrian like it used to be. He scoffs. "Roderich," she starts, not sure what she wants to say.

In the blink of an eye he's grabbed her, holding her tight to his chest. There is that strength in his arms, the strength she had lacked when embracing Anya. He does not cry; that's not Roderich. She's glad for that.

The image of him in that dark room finally comes back, and Erzsi tightens her grip just a little at the memory of 1949. Roderich had not struggled, because after the divorce he never could put up a fight. He'd watched her till the end, his eyes trained on her, empty. Even then she wasn't sure if she still loved him, but she remembers being frightened of a world without Roderich. A world without moments like these, here, where he is both predictable and spontaneous.

Roderich turns his head, kisses at her neck through her hair, and it takes Erzsi by surprise, the intimate move they've shared for centuries, that she's never denied him. He started doing it before they were married, and she didn't understand until much later that it meant he loved her and missed her and could not find the words for what he wanted to express. It was second only to sex in the intimacy, the emotion, attached to such an act.

Pulling back, Roderich's eyes betray his sadness. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, blinking in an uncomfortable manner, and his use of informal speech is foreign; he's never spoken like that before. "Habit."

Erzsi nods.

Something in her compels Erzsi to wrap her arms around his neck, slowly, hands running up his chest, around his collarbone, until she's embracing him the way she used to, to say she too loved him and missed him. It's his turn to be surprised, and they stay like that for several minutes. "Habit," she murmurs.

Roderich nods.

Behind them Gil's laugh rips through the air, Francis and Anya joining in; Lutz is probably shaking his head. Roderich looks over her shoulder, focused on the sight, but Erzsi cannot turn back. She waits for him to ask, but the question never comes. Instead it is a statement, a simple observation.

"Braginski must be proud of the daughter you share."

She doesn't miss the hurt, couldn't if she'd wanted to. "I still love you," she offers with only half an effort because she's not sure if it's true anymore, but wants to believe it. The heart cannot forget so easily what it gained so slowly.

The once-hers Austrian shakes his head. "You do not have to lie." That cuts at her, hitting her in that little piece of her heart that was always Austrian soil. Always Roderich's. Because he can be so cruel like this, can lash out with the simplicity construction of words, can cause great injury without lifting a hand.

She sees it, Erzsi sees him realize what he's said, sees him realize what her reaction is. He immediately regrets it, she can tell, but he's said it and any hope she had of making things right with him quickly, of returning to those arms and that body and going back to his bed because it was home, they're all gone.

"I lo-" he starts, but she knows what he's about to say.

"Save it," she spits, disgusted with him, disgusted with herself. He had his chance to say I love you. But that wasn't what he said.

Maybe they're both out of practice.

"Erz-" but he's cut off by Anya, who does not know the strange man, does not hear the conversation they're having. She wraps her arms around her mother from behind, and Erzsi reciprocates, holding Anya to her back. Roderich looks so sad but now Erzsi knows she was kidding herself, thinking it could all go back to the way it was. She's not that person anymore. He's not that person anymore. It wasn't just a cold war that drove them apart; it was the chance to reflect on everything they did and didn't do. The chance to be, without the other there.

"Mama?" Anya asks, and now the other men have come to join them as well. As she turns in her daughter's arms, Erzsi doesn't miss Roderich taking two steps back. Moments like these, he's not good at sharing them with other people. "Mama, when will I get to see Papa?"

That question was always going to come. Erzsi has a letter tucked into her jacket from Vanya, a letter for Anya. The girl- no, the young lady- lights up as Erzsi produces it, holding it to her chest. "He said he will come," Erzsi offers, "when things have calmed down. But I do not know where you can meet." Anya cannot go back to Russia, Erzsi said she wanted to wait longer before that happened. And Erzsi cannot let him come to Hungary after all that had transpired. They knew it'd be difficult to meet again; he has few friends left.

Francis steps forward. "I offer my house in Paris, for when the time is right."

Anya jumps up and down, holding her adopted parent close. "Thank you Francis!" she screams in French, and his face breaks out into a wide smile. But there's something more there as he holds the woman he's cared for.

"What are you grinning about?" Erzsi asks, her eyes narrowing. He shrugs.

"Happiness," he starts in slow Russian, "always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." He smiles. "Maxim Gorky. Today reminded me of it, of Vanya telling me that quote."

The name clicks in her mind, the name of that little town. "He was a writer?" she asks. Francis nods. Perhaps Vanya was the one who gave the town that name.

"Where are we?" Gil asks suddenly, turning to his brother. The station is somewhere in Germany, that western land that for so long was off limit. Much of it has been rebuilt, repaired, like its country incarnate has.

"Bonn," Lutz says. "It is West Germany's capital. Or, at least, the West Germany that was." He smiles to himself, in that boyish way she's always loved, and Gil looks at him with such love Erzsi cries her last unshed tears. Anya wipes them away.

**"**Живы бу́дем – не помрём," Anya whispers in her mother's ear. It's going to be alright. She used to whisper it to her in the night, when Anya wept from fear.

Erzsi holds her daughter close. "I know." She kisses her head.

Francis gestures for them to leave the station and Anya looks to her mother, who nods; the girl takes Gil's arm, leading the way out. Lutz offers Erzsi his arm.

"I've missed you Erzsi," he says as she takes hold of him. She smiles at that.

As they leave Erzsi chances to glance back, where Francis is speaking to Roderich. But there will be time to speak, to explain. Things with Roderich will get better. They've all been through so much, their countries changing, themselves changing. But with Anya's laugh and Gil's voice, Lutz's watchful gaze full of love, Erzsi knows it will be ok. Time makes even the most unappealing situations grow bearable, heals all wounds, gives new life to immortal creatures.

One last look is cast upon the train car that had brought them here, bright red in the sun. Behind its glass cabinets are books with dangerous ideas, on the table pictures of a family lost in a revolution. Vanya's train car brought them freedom. The irony is not lost on the Hungarian nation.

When she met him, Ivan Braginski was cold and distant and scary. He was abusive and controlling and Erzsi judged him by what she saw him as. By what the world saw the Russian nation as. The photographs she carried then reminded her of days gone by, of the only men she thought she could ever be content with.

Now she carries three more photographs that prove the older ones wrong.

The first is Erzsi between Gil and Irina, their sleeves rolled up, standing in the garden they had helped Vanya plant in the back. Behind them sunflowers are turned towards the high sun, a breeze bending them slightly. Their clothes are dirty, as are their faces, but there is also satisfaction in all of them.

The second is outside the ballet studio, Erzsi and Vanya crouched down to Anya's height. Erzsi's pointing at the camera, showing Anya where to look. Vanya is beaming at them, one hand on Anya's head, the other on Erzsi's knee. The little girl couldn't have been more than four. She was so small. She is still so perfect.

The third is from Pripyat, the river behind them. Vanya is standing behind Erzsi, his arms around her waist, and she's holding his hands, the ring he'd given her reflecting the light. They're both grinning so wide, the sun sparkling on the water; that moment was one Erzsi would have never thought possible. Her face is bright, but it's Vanya's that she loves the most. He looks so happy, so young, so loving, and Erzsi hopes the world will let him have moments like those back.

He's not perfect, but Erzsi still loves him. Lutz helps her down the stairs.

* * *

><p>Roderich can only stand and watch them leave. Francis stands a little way from him, watching the Austrian's reaction. Erzsi looks back, once, and he wants to smile but he can't. She moves on without him, just as she had with Ivan.<p>

He thought he'd hold her tight, kiss her, lavish her, love her. He thought she'd love him right back, as if not a moment had been missed.

But then Francis arrived with a woman that was clearly the child of Ivan Braginski. Roderich thought nothing of the pair, until that woman's eyes caught his, and his heart froze.

Roderich had not even thought of another woman since he married Erzsi. After the divorce he just couldn't, and that one night towards the end of the last world war, in the bunker, reminded him why not. Erzsi was perfect, moved against him and with him and Gott he hates her for how much he loves her. Her kiss had been different, he knew she'd felt another's touch, but it had been nothing in that moment. Surely it had been a one-time thing; Francis had confessed later, and Roderich knew it had meant nothing. She was still his.

But then Francis came with Erzsi's daughter, and Roderich realized how wrong he was.

"What happened?" he whispers quietly to no one in particular. Francis looks up with sad eyes, his face reflecting an uneasy spirit within. "She said she'd love me forever. She said she'd love only me."

"Forever is for humans." It shakes Roderich, the nation of love saying such things. Those blue eyes are watching him, and he hates that Francis is here.

"What happened?" Roderich repeats weakly. Francis blinks before speaking.

"She fell in love."


End file.
